


A Restlessness in Common

by dottyoz



Category: DUMAS Alexandre - Works, Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:57:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 39,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1468657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottyoz/pseuds/dottyoz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four days ago, Aramis disappeared.  But they're like magnets - they will always find each other, no matter the risk, and defend each other to the death if necessary.</p><p>It's been pointed out that I duplicated a chapter.  I actually missed one out earlier which confused me - thank you to the person who noticed, unfortunately in redoing the chapters I lost your comment so I can't thank you personally.  </p><p>If you're following this then I suggest you restart at chapter 22 as that's where I went wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

Aramis should be doing this, thinks Athos as he lines up the musket, leaning on the decaying wall for balance. He spares the time to glance to his left where he can see Porthos taking careful aim with his own musket. Athos allows himself a brief moment of satisfaction before looking to the wall opposite, where he can see d’Artagnan concentrating on the tableau set out beneath them for their pleasure. Aramis should be doing this, he thinks again.

But Aramis is the reason they’re here. Their crack shot, the best shooter in the regiment, is the one down in the deserted courtyard below them. On his knees, hands bound behind his back, head bowed through either exhaustion or some unseen coercion.

Part of Athos wants his younger companion to show some sign that he knows they’re there, they haven’t abandoned him – would never abandon him. He wants Aramis to climb to his feet and just run. But he knows there’s someone, somewhere with his own musket trained on the figure below them. One false move and Aramis will pay with his life. 

He catches a glint of light from somewhere in the distance and his attention is immediately taken away from Aramis’ predicament. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Porthos has also noticed it. D’Artagnan is still focused on Aramis so Athos assumes he hasn’t seen it. In a way he’s glad. It means at least one of them is still watching over Aramis.

Porthos is raising his musket, pointing it at something Athos can’t see yet. He squints into the dying sunlight, trying to see whatever it is that Porthos has seen. There’s nothing, but that doesn’t worry Athos. He trusts his comrades and if Porthos has spotted something, he’s happy for him to deal with it.

A creaking of rusty hinges distracts him from Porthos’ mission and he tenses, looking back down to Aramis. 

The ground beneath Aramis’ knees is dry and dusty. The evening breeze is creating tiny whirlwinds of sand around his heels. He’s not showing anything, but Athos would like to bet the feeling in his toes is numb to say the least. Behind him, old, decrepit stable doors are swinging slowly open. Athos straightens his back, taking time only to check on d’Artagnan and Porthos before watching the scene below him.

Aramis has obviously heard the doors, and possibly something out of Athos’ earshot, and he raises his head, defiance rolling off his shoulders. It’s the first time Athos has seen his face for four days and he doesn’t like what he sees. The time obviously hasn’t passed easily for the stricken soldier. He’s pale, more pale than Athos is happy with, and his hair is hanging in limp curls around his face. Athos isn’t sure from this distance but he’s pretty certain the shadows around Aramis’ eyes and cheekbones aren’t due to the setting sun. He’s seen bruises before but for some reason these ones make him feel sick. Probably, he muses, because he wasn’t there to stop them happening.

Athos looks across to d’Artagnan and sees a similar reaction to his own in the young recruit’s face. Aramis is shifting on his knees and Athos wonders if he’s about to do something incredibly stupid. He needs to let the soldier below him know he’s no longer alone before it’s too late.

But then it doesn’t really matter any more as Porthos, clearly no longer able to contain himself, stands up, breaking cover and shouting to his dearest friend to take heart, or something along those lines – Porthos never was the most eloquent Musketeer. Athos watches as Aramis twists his head round, sees the moment he understands his brothers are here for him. He sees determination renewed in his friend’s stance and a twitch of his head to his left, unnoticeable by any but his closest allies, that informs Athos that they are as much the hunted as the hunters.

But Porthos may have jumped the gun, Athos realises with a sinking heart as the sound of a musket shot rings out from somewhere behind d'Artagnan.

Later, Athos will swear blind he didn’t scream, but in the failing daylight, he shouts a warning to Porthos, ordering him with controlled panic to get down. He sees Porthos fall, sees dust dance around in the air where Porthos stood only seconds ago and then he sees only red as he turns to where the shot came from and sees the shooter standing calmly behind d'Artagnan, holding the musket to the boy’s head.


	2. Chapter 2

d'Artagnan stretches his gun hand out, flexing his fingers to release some of the tension that has built up over the last hour. He thinks he’s been crouching behind this wall for most of the afternoon but he lost track of time some while ago. Not that it really matters, he’ll stay here all week if that’s what it takes to get Aramis back. None of them will leave here without their fallen comrade, that much he knows.

He studies the courtyard below him, taking note of where Aramis might have been held, where his captors, cowards that they are, might be hiding. There are three sets of stable doors, all of them closed, and a crumbling block which, d'Artagnan presumes, used to house the serving staff. The manor house has long since been destroyed. 

The musketeers have the advantage of height – d'Artagnan can see clearly everything below him and, with only a little adjustment of position, all around him. The scenery is bleak without being depressing – a few shrubs and trees sparsely scattered around. The summer heat has dried any moisture from the ground and when the air shifts, it takes the dust with it.

d'Artagnan looks across to where Athos and Porthos are settled in their positions. He catches Athos’ eye and nods briefly. He’s ready for whatever is to come. He’ll fight for Aramis, for Athos, for Porthos without question, without a second thought. They would, he knows, do the same for him. What he doesn’t know is why they haven’t yet made a move.

And then Porthos launches himself out of hiding to yell to Aramis, and that’s when everything falls apart.

d'Artagnan watches in fascinated horror as Porthos falls, hears Athos’ cry and then, when it’s too late, far too late, he hears footsteps falling on the cracked, dry earth behind him. He whirls round, his pistol held firmly in his hand, other hand already going to the hilt of his sword, but his actions are pointless. 

The man behind him, kerchief across his face making it impossible for d'Artagnan to identify him, is fast. His foot flies out with deadly accuracy, knocking the gun from d'Artagnan’s hand. d'Artagnan feels the shock waves reverberate up his arm, loses the feeling in his fingers instantly and somewhere in the back of his mind he finds the time to hope it’s only temporary. 

Instinctively his other hand grips the hilt of his sword but the unmistakable sound of a pistol hammer being drawn back freezes him in place. He lets his hand drop – Athos and the others may think he’s hotheaded but he knows when to accept defeat – and looks the man in the eye. He can’t be sure because of the kerchief covering the lower half of the man’s face but he thinks there’s a smile under there and it makes him feel sick.

“Turn around,” he’s ordered. The voice is soft, softer than d'Artagnan was expecting, but determined and the musketeer thinks it best not to argue at this stage. He raises his hands in surrender and complies with the order. He finds himself looking directly at Athos and he can’t decide which feels worse –the look of controlled panic on his mentor’s face or the feel of cold metal at the back of his head which he knows he stands no chance against.   
“Stand up,” the voice behind him commands, the words accompanied by a gentle nudge with the muzzle of the gun at his head. Not breaking eye contact with Athos, d'Artagnan complies, climbing from his knees to his feet. At this angle he realises his assailant is shorter than him and he wonders if this is going to give him an advantage or not. Athos, opposite him, shakes his head and d'Artagnan wonders how he knew what he was thinking. Resigning himself to his fate, for now, d'Artagnan relaxes slightly, allowing himself time to assess the situation, looking for options, looking for a way out of this mess.

He’s not surprised to have his hands pulled behind his back and he lets it happen, watching Aramis below him. The beleaguered musketeer has been watching Porthos and Athos, seemingly transfixed on Porthos’ fate. The older musketeer hasn’t reappeared since he fell and although d'Artagnan is worried by that, Athos doesn’t seem inclined to rush to his rescue. There must, d'Artagnan muses, be a reason for Athos’ inaction, but he can’t for the life of him think what it might be.


	3. Chapter 3

Aramis waits in silence, on his knees on the dusty ground, ignoring the grit that makes its presence known with a constant sharpness. He knows he’s being watched from the stable block, knows what’s at stake here, so when he tugs gently on the coarse rope binding his wrists together he does it subtly. He can’t afford to be seen.

On the other hand, he can’t afford to be complacent either. He’s been out here since the sun sat high in the sky, heat beating down on him, burning his face so slowly he’s not even really aware of the damage it’s doing.

He should, he reflects, have made a break for it two days ago, when they left him unattended for the first, and last, time. He’s always relished company, he’s not a man with whom solitude sits well, but their constant company in his darkened prison had worn thin after just a couple of hours. 

Fatigue never seems to be far around the corner for Aramis now. He hasn’t slept properly since he was taken, food and drink have been sparse and hardly up to his mother’s standards or even what he’s grown used to at the garrison. He hardly dares to close his eyes for fear they will not open again. 

As the sun drifts slowly, blessedly, down to meet the horizon, Aramis lets his head drop slightly, feeling the muscles in his neck creak and protest the movement. He knows his friends will not abandon him, but he also knows how easy it is to disappear in Paris if a man is really set on it. He’s done it himself from time to time. He wonders what purpose this sitting out in the open does. 

Aramis doesn’t keep track of time. For the first day or two he tried, but it seemed a pointless exercise. His captors don’t keep to a routine and other than watching the sunrise and set, Aramis no longer knows nor cares what hour it is. Which is why, when he hears the doors of the stable creak open, he knows without a shadow of a doubt his time is up.

He straightens up instinctively. If they are going to kill him – and he thinks they are – they will not have the pleasure of having destroyed his spirit too. His hair sticks to his face and what would he give to be able to brush those unruly strands out of his eyes. But the bonds hold tight and, as he senses, rather than sees, the doors swing open, resignation to his fate settles in for the duration.

My friends have not come, he thinks. They have not found me. He knows the guilt and recrimination that Athos will claim as his right when his body is found. He knows d'Artagnan will be shattered to his core – the boy has seen death, his father, fellow musketeers, and he hides it well, Aramis reflects, but he feels every death deeply. And Porthos? Porthos, his dearest, closest, most loved of friends. He will be haunted to the end of his days, become reckless with his own life, fight for the wrong reasons.

Aramis may be about to die, but he doesn’t want this on his conscience.

He shifts awkwardly on his knees when a light catches his eye. Hope is raised in his heart. Maybe, just maybe, he’s wrong and he is no longer alone. And then he sees and hears the most beautiful and most terrifying thing he could imagine.

Porthos has risen into his line of vision and is shouting something. Aramis can’t make out his words through the buzzing in his head. He shakes his head to clear the fading edges of his vision. Afterwards he thinks this was the moment he saw the danger. He looks back to Porthos, knowing that where one is, the others can’t be far away. He’s not wrong – Athos is just to the right and although he can’t see d'Artagnan, Aramis knows he will be there somewhere.

He feels Athos’ eyes on him and a sixth sense has Aramis indicating to his left, to where he’s sure he caught a glimpse of metal in the fading sunlight. He means to ask if d'Artagnan is over there but before Athos can respond, he hears a shot ring out and Porthos, his beautiful Porthos, is gone.

For one long moment, Aramis thinks he’s going to faint. He stares at the spot where Porthos stood just seconds ago and watches the dust swirling in his place. At least he thinks it’s dust. It might be the world closing in on him, a visual accompaniment to the ringing echoing around his head.

He finds himself swaying on unsteady knees, oblivious to his surroundings, unable to fathom how Porthos could be gone so suddenly. Perhaps this is a ruse, he thinks, knowing he’s grasping at straws. Perhaps any minute now Porthos is going to appear behind him. But a split second look at Athos and his hopes for Porthos are shattered afresh. Athos is as still as a statue, staring across the chasm that is the courtyard at something or someone Aramis is neither able, nor willing to look at.

His eyes are still fixed on the spot where Porthos fell when he feels a hand fisting in his hair and his attention is rudely diverted. He allows his head to be pulled back until he’s looking up at the sky and he finds himself wondering where the evening birds have gone. There should be some sign of life, he muses bizarrely, bats or birds or even just dragonflies. Maybe, he thinks, God is mourning with him, filling the world with the emptiness Aramis feels in his soul.

The touch of cold steel against his throat brings him back to reality with a crash and suddenly everything is amplified a thousand times. He can feel every hair on his head being wrenched out and he wants to fight against it. But he won’t. Because he’s not on his own and he won’t risk any more lives on his behalf. The loss is already too great.

“Monsieur Athos,” a voice rings out from the courtyard, but not, Aramis notes, the man behind him. “Come and join us, please. Aramis is already here and d'Artagnan has graciously accepted our invitation.”

Aramis cannot miss the implication in the speech. Athos and d'Artagnan are alive but Porthos hasn’t even been worth a mention. The only thing holding him up right now is that hand in his hair and knife at his throat. 

He’s not sure that’s enough any more.


	4. Chapter 4

Looking back, Porthos will swear blind he knew exactly what he was doing but right now, lying on his back, looking up at the heavy foliage of the ash tree he finds himself under, his plans are unformed to say the least.

He can hear shouting in the courtyard below him and he catches Athos' and d'Artagnan's names in the breeze. Part of him wants to crawl to his feet, peer past the cover of the boulder before him to check on their beleaguered comrade, but he won't.

He can't.

And he can't quite believe how undeniably stupid he's been. He can feel his blood pulsing through his veins, slowly dripping on to the ground beneath him from the bullet wound in his side. He thinks it's only grazed him but it hurts like hell and he knows from bitter experience if he tries to move too soon he'll only end up swooning like a girl. He'll be no good to anyone like that.

Slowly, it dawns on him that his name wasn't mentioned. He's not as intellectual as Aramis, poetry and reading were never his pastimes of choice, but he's street smart. Growing up in the Court does that to a man. It can only mean one thing, he realises. Whoever is down there thinks he's dead. Or at least, not a threat.

He lets a slow smile find its way on to his face. That, he thinks, is their first mistake. He turns his head to see what he can see from here. A shadow passes over him and he winks at Athos as the older man steps gracefully over his outstretched legs. Athos acknowledges him with an imperceptible nod, not breaking stride for a second.

Porthos relaxes. He's known Athos for so long, fought alongside him so often, that they hardly need to speak to know what each of them is thinking. He knows Athos will stall for time, will get the message to d'Artagnan and Aramis that he lives still and that when the time is right, when Porthos is ready to swoop in, guns and swords drawn, Athos will make sure they are ready for him.

He lets his eyes fall closed briefly. In his mind, unbidden, he relives the moment he knew he was going to be hit. He can see himself rise to his feet, unable to stand the tension any longer, needing to know Aramis is still with them. He can't remember what he said – shouted – to his brother in arms, he doesn't think it's important anyway. The only thing that mattered to him in that moment was Aramis' face, his eyes locking on his friend.

Porthos raises an arm and wipes it across his face, dislodging midges that have settled there in the rapidly encroaching twilight. There'll be bites to contend with in the morning but their discomfort pales into insignificance when he pulls on the wound in his side.

He should, he reflects, be doing something about it. Athos is long gone and he can faintly hear voices floating up from the courtyard below. He thinks he can hear d'Artagnan's indignant tones mixed in with Athos and another voice he doesn't know. He strains to hear Aramis but, try as he might, he cannot sense anything.

He lifts his head to examine his wound as best he can. The bleeding has slowed to a sluggish drop from time to time and, if he concentrates really hard, he can feel the skin tightening around the graze. A few more minutes, he thinks, and he'll be good to go.

Which is a few minutes too long and Porthos has never been renowned for his patience where someone's life is in danger. He raises himself to a sitting position, wincing openly, knowing nobody's here to see his discomfort. He blinks a few times, beating down the nagging pain, pushing it to the back of his consciousness in order to focus on the courtyard below.

If he crawls on his belly – not a good idea but needs must – he thinks he'll be able to get a better view of the scene below. He pulls his jacket closed, covering his injury as best he can and shuffles as far forward as he dares.

In the fading light, he can't see expressions on his comrades' faces but their posture is unmistakable. Athos is standing, feet astride, at the end of the courtyard, his hands resting at his side. To all intents and purposes he's relaxed but Porthos knows that look, knows the man behind it and is absurdly glad he's on his side. Porthos can't tell from this distance, but he thinks Athos is talking, he can see the way he has his head tilted to one side and the way his fingers flutter from time to time as though to emphasise his point.

Probably, Porthos guesses, Athos is directing his words at d'Artagnan who is, true to nature, not taking kindly to being held against his will. Porthos can see the ropes digging into the youngster's wrists, secured at his back. He smiles wryly as he watches d'Artagnan struggle regardless against his bonds and the man who has taken hold of his shoulders in a vain attempt to still the boy.

But his smile drops as soon as he takes in Aramis' stance. Even without seeing his face, Porthos knows Aramis has been defeated, crushed in spirit and possibly in body. His shoulders are slumped and he's paying no attention to his rescuers. To an onlooker he seems oblivious even to their presence. The hulk of a man behind him has a hand fisted in the back of his jacket, preventing him from moving but Porthos thinks it's probably the only thing keeping his friend upright. Take away that support, Porthos muses, and Aramis would be flat on the ground.

He shuffles back again, out of sight, to consider his options. Athos clearly has command of the situation and he knows Porthos is biding his time but whether he'll be able to get the message across to d'Artagnan is looking unlikely. As for Aramis…

The injury nestling below Porthos' ribs nudges at his consciousness, reminding him of the attention he should be paying it. He absently rubs it with his hand, nodding to himself when his hand comes away sticky with cloying blood but no more freely flowing blood. In his head he can hear Aramis, the ever-consummate doctor berating him, telling him to rest and recuperate before doing anything stupid and he silently offers apologies, knowing that's just not an option at the moment. He'll rest and recuperate when there's time, when Aramis is beside him to administer his own unique brand of first aid.

Porthos makes his decision and sits back to guard over his friends and wait for nightfall to implement his plan.


	5. Chapter 5

Athos hears the voice calling to him from below, demanding his attention. The words d'Artagnan has graciously accepted our invitation echo round his head. He’s looking right at the boy and he can see exactly how gracious he’s being about the whole affair.

d'Artagnan has become a part of their company so quickly, so thoroughly, that Athos instinctively knows what his protégé is considering. He shakes his head at d'Artagnan, hoping he is as in tune with Athos’ thoughts as Athos is with his. Relief floods through the musketeer as he watches d'Artagnan drop his shoulders and allow himself to be restrained and led away by his captor. The Gascon has, at least, a chance of walking away from this.

He really has no choice now. Athos will never abandon a fallen comrade, he doesn’t know how. He saw Porthos fall, felt his heart lurch and drop, his blood running cold as Porthos’ body dropped to the dusty ground and saw the twitch of his fellow soldier’s foot. Somewhere along the line, Athos has developed certain skills of his own. His naturally reticent nature lends itself perfectly to this situation. His face remains impassive, giving nothing away but in his heart he feels relief, an absurd, joyous relief, that Porthos is, relatively, unharmed.

He casts a final look in d'Artagnan’s direction before making his way down to the courtyard, to his stricken comrade, passing Porthos and briefly, so briefly, acknowledging the soldier on the ground. He knows Porthos will not let them down and in the meantime he will do everything in his power to keep Aramis, d'Artagnan and himself alive long enough for Porthos to get help.

Not that Porthos will go down that route, he muses ruefully. Neither would he, Athos supposes, if the positions were reversed. None of them would.

He reaches the courtyard to be greeted by a man he vaguely recognises. He’s not surprised to find himself relieved of all weaponry, standard procedure after all. He is surprised, however, to discover he’s not considered enough of a threat to have his hands bound like d'Artagnan or Aramis. 

d'Artagnan has beaten him to the courtyard and by the time Athos has done a surreptitious reconnaissance of their surroundings their newest recruit is in full flow, language that would make a sailor blush. Athos is secretly impressed with the range of profanities falling with such ease from d'Artagnan’s mouth. He’s sure d'Artagnan didn’t learn those words at his mother’s knee. Only the threat of a gag subdues the flow until d'Artagnan falls into a resentful silence. 

Finally Athos manages to get a good look at Aramis. The sight isn’t pretty but Athos isn’t one to be deceived by appearances. He knows head wounds produce an impressive amount of blood. He knows Aramis has a hard head and that bruises heal quickly. But he also knows Aramis isn’t wont to sit passively on his knees, isn’t one to allow his friends and comrades come to harm in his presence if he can do anything about it, isn’t one to let events wash over him.

But that’s exactly what he is doing and that’s what worries Athos more than the bruises and scrapes and dried blood on Aramis’ face. Aramis isn’t really there, not in spirit. Athos doesn’t know where he is right now – Savoy maybe, back in his mother’s arms, his face his completely blank and he’s giving nothing away. He could be somewhere safe or somewhere horrifying, Athos can’t tell. The older musketeer doesn’t think he’s ever been so scared by a look and he’s seen many, many looks over the years. 

He tears his eyes away from Aramis, glances briefly at d'Artagnan and wonders what Porthos is up to right now. He hopes he’s taking the time to recuperate as best he can but he knows Porthos too well. The man would give his life for any one of them in an instant but there’s always been a closeness between him and Aramis that Athos doesn’t quite understand but has never questioned. To threaten one of them is to threaten both of them.

The evening air is turning cooler but the chill that runs down Athos’ spine isn’t caused by the weather. It’s Aramis’ lifeless words that are so quiet Athos isn’t even sure he’s spoken.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Athos turns slowly to face Aramis again, oblivious to the company they are in. In his periphery vision he can see d'Artagnan gearing up to protest this statement but he gets in there first. 

“Why would we not?” he questions, truly baffled by Aramis’ declaration. He knows the code they live by, spoken or unspoken.

And finally, finally, Aramis looks directly at Athos and Athos can’t hide his feelings this time. To see his brother in arms so broken, so desolate, is heartbreaking and terrifying.

“My life is not worth his,” Aramis whispers and it’s clear of whom he is speaking. “My life is not worth his,” he repeats and drops his head again.

“Aramis…” d'Artagnan begins but Athos holds a hand up to him, stilling any further words that the younger man may have had. He knows the look in Aramis’ face – he’s seen it before and he had hoped to never see it again. The only words that will get through to Aramis now are reassurances of Porthos’ wellbeing but to do so would be to tip their hand. Athos cannot risk that. Porthos is their lifeline now and he will not jeopardise that. He knows, hopes, Aramis will forgive him this deception in time.

“Your life is as worthy as any of ours,” Athos assures him, all the while knowing that Aramis is not listening. Aramis is lost in his grief for Porthos, the words his life is not worth mine falling silently from his lips like a litany. 

“This is all very touching,” comes a voice from behind Athos, “but it’s really not why we’re here and quite frankly, it’s tiresome. Either you shut him up, or we will.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes, d'Artagnan surprises himself. This is one of those moments, he reflects, as he hears a string of profanities dance out of him. He isn’t generally a man who finds it necessary to curse. His mother had heard him once, out in the fields, and had made it known in no uncertain terms that if he wished to live under her roof his mouth had better be civilised and courteous, even to the swine currently trampling his feet to pulp. d'Artagnan never forgot that lesson but now, here, it doesn’t seem relevant.

Aramis had looked up briefly as d'Artagnan and his captor entered the courtyard, d'Artagnan with somewhat less grace than usual as he had stumbled through the gateway. Losing the use of his arms to steady him had been an enlightening, and occasionally, painful experience. It was, he’d mused, virtually impossible to fall stylishly with no means of catching oneself. He became a lot better acquainted with the ground on the route down the courtyard than when he’d made his way up there earlier in the day and he knows he has the bruises to prove it.

But his own woes are put brutally into perspective with one glimpse of Aramis’ face. d'Artagnan had known there would be injuries on his friend but nothing had really prepared him for the reality. Aramis’ face is filthy but the dirt can’t hide the bruises and half healed cuts. d'Artagnan feels his own stomach hit the ground and he comes to an abrupt halt, causing the man behind him to stride into him resulting in both men lurching to an ungainly stop.

He wonders briefly if he’s going to throw up. He’s seen his friends, his fellow soldiers, battered and bruised before but always in the call of duty. This though, this is senseless brutality for the sake of it. Aramis has done nothing to deserve this treatment. d'Artagnan doesn’t even know why they’re here – it never seemed important. The fact that one of their number needs him is enough. He’s aware he’s still new to the party, he knows they all have secrets that they guard closely, but he also knows all three of them hold honour dear to their hearts, Aramis above all.

Aramis won’t meet his eye and the only thing that cuts short d'Artagnan’s tirade is the arrival of Athos, calm confidence oozing from every pore. d'Artagnan isn’t sure how to feel about Athos’ composure. He can’t understand why the older soldier is so still, why he isn’t fighting, swords or muskets or daggers or anything, drawn. Maybe in years to come, when he has the experience of command he’ll understand, he thinks later, but in this moment, d'Artagnan wants to fight for Aramis and for Athos, to avenge Porthos. 

Athos’ arrival allows a modicum of relief to creep into d'Artagnan’s consciousness. The older musketeer knows exactly how to handle the situation with calming words bordering on, but never quite becoming, platitudes to their captors. There’s a bit of a conversation between him and one of their adversaries but d'Artagnan doesn’t hear much of it through the buzzing in his ears. He catches a name or two and manages to pay enough attention to work out the man behind him is Thibaud and the main protagonist is named Descarte. Neither name means anything to d'Artagnan but, glancing at Athos, he sees the older man stiffen ever so slightly, his game face slipping for a brief second. d'Artagnan thinks he should probably worry about that.

Then Aramis shifts slightly on his knees. “You shouldn’t have come,” he whispers and d'Artagnan isn’t sure who he’s talking to. It’s more than possible Aramis is unaware of his surroundings and d'Artagnan opens his mouth to reassure his friend but Athos beats him to it.

“Why would we not?” Athos questions and to d'Artagnan is seems as though Athos is truly bewildered, as is he. How could Aramis think this way? What have they done that Aramis himself would not have done for any one of them?

“My life is not worth his.”

d'Artagnan cannot stop himself this time, threats from Thibaud or not. He cannot allow Aramis to continue down this slope of self loathing. It’s true, Porthos is gone, and d'Artagnan feels disloyal even just thinking it, but for Aramis to believe his life to be worth less than Porthos’ is inconceivable. 

“Aramis…” he begins, desperate for his friend to hear him, to understand his own value, but Athos stops him with just a hand. It’s funny how Athos has such a quiet command over his actions but d'Artagnan cannot, will not, disobey. Not when he sees the look on Athos’ face. 

“Your life is just as worthy as any of ours,” Athos offers reassurance but d'Artagnan can see the look on Descarte’s face. He doesn’t like the look of it as Aramis seems to shrink in on himself before his very eyes.

“This is all very touching, but it’s really not why we’re here and quite frankly, it’s tiresome. Either you shut him up, or we will.”

The menace behind the words is clear. Aramis doesn’t seem to care and his monologue continues regardless. d'Artagnan is powerless to help, his attempts to free his hands has been fruitless and with Thibaud breathing down his neck he thinks it unlikely he’d get far in any case. 

Athos, on the other hand, is moving instantly to where Aramis is crumbling away. d'Artagnan watches, on edge, waiting for Descarte’s men to stop him. Surprise and relief vie for top position when nobody else moves. Athos makes it to Aramis unhindered and lays a hand on his shoulder, looking directly at Descarte.

“You will not touch him again,” he growls and d'Artagnan can’t help a small smile creep on to his face. He wouldn’t want to be in Descarte’s shoes right now. He may think he’s got the upper hand but Athos is a formidable foe. d'Artagnan feels a grim satisfaction as Aramis looks up and finally falls silent. He’s sure it’s nothing to do with the threat to his wellbeing and everything to do with the physical comfort Athos is offering.

Descarte shrugs and looks to Thibaud. “I will do what I chose, to whom I chose,” he counters with an equal harshness in his voice and d'Artagnan feels his blood run cold as Thibaud slides a dagger out of its sheath, twirling it suggestively in front of his face. He can’t see the man’s face but he can see Aramis’ and Athos’ and their expressions leave no doubt as to what Thibaud is implying. Aramis’ eyes have gone wide and he’s shaking visibly now, Athos’ hand no longer seems to be grounding him so well. 

Athos takes a step forward, never releasing his hold on Aramis but Thibaud is quicker. The dagger, once merely a plaything, is a cold threat against d'Artagnan’s throat and a hand in his hair, tugging his head back, is callous and painful. d'Artagnan freezes and the world slows down.

“Really, Athos?” Descarte queries, and despite his predicament, d'Artagnan can hear amusement in the voice. He wishes he could see Athos but the grip on his hair is fierce. He can feel his scalp lifting to meet the demands of his assailant. 

“You’ve already lost one,” Descarte continues and d'Artagnan can only assume he’s referring to Porthos, the unwelcome reminder hitting him like a ball of ice. “You would risk another? And for what?”

That, thinks d'Artagnan, is a very good question as he pulls against the hold Thibaud has on him, testing the other man’s commitment to this course of action. 

Thibaud, it transpires, has a very good hold on d'Artagnan and he doesn’t appear to appreciate the boy’s actions. He tugs painfully on his hair, pulling d'Artagnan back. The musketeer can’t help the sudden intake of breath as he struggles to maintain his footing. The knife at his throat has never felt so real and as he attempts to remain upright, the blade digs into the soft flesh at the base of his neck, drawing blood.

He can feel Thibaud’s hot breath on the back of his neck. He can hear Aramis’ soft voice chanting, he thinks the man is praying but d'Artagnan’s knowledge of the scriptures is limited. He wonders who Aramis is praying for. In the background he can hear Athos’ deep voice rumbling through his thoughts. 

And then the unexpected happens, taking them all by surprise. A shot rings out from somewhere above them and Thibaud stumbles backwards, dragging d'Artagnan with him. The grip on his hair loosens but Thibaud’s fingers are tangled in d'Artagnan’s long locks and as the man collapses, d'Artagnan feels himself pulled downwards, unable to save himself from the fall. The knife falls harmlessly to the ground. d'Artagnan tries to twist around, to cushion his landing but he is hindered by Thibaud’s dying grip and as the man gurgles his last in d'Artagnan’s ear, the young Gascon feels his head land on the unforgiving ground with a sickening crack.

As the world slips out of focus, d'Artagnan vaguely wonders where the shot came from.


	7. Chapter 7

At any other time, in any other circumstances, Aramis would be grinning right now. d'Artagnan has grown in oh so many ways since he burst into their lives but the current display of language is so clearly expressed Aramis has no doubt the younger man has had years to perfect its delivery.

But it's hard to smile when your soul is empty and all you long for is a quick death to relieve the guilt and remorse tearing you apart. So he lets his mind wander, desperate to avoid replaying the last half an hour of his life. Porthos would berate him soundly, he reflects and thoughts of his dearest friend bring him small comfort. He allows his eyes to close and lets his mind close in on itself.

In the background he can hear d'Artagnan continue his diatribe against their captors. Thibaud, Aramis knows, will take no notice, but Descarte? He's another matter altogether. Aramis has known him for less than a week but a man as perceptive as the musketeer needs only a few minutes to truly know a man's real nature. It is, he muses ruefully, a gift.

He knows he should try to stop d'Artagnan but, try as he might, he cannot find it within him to speak up. Maybe, he ponders, he's finally lost the ability to talk. Maybe he's already dead but his mind hasn't caught up yet. Descarte will kill them all, he realises. He's doing the boy a favour really, he reasons, allowing him passage to a quick death rather than the tortuous hell he's been in for the last few days.

d'Artagnan falls silent and Aramis furrows his brow, regretting it almost instantly as old cuts on his forehead protest the movement by sending shards of pain into his skull. He can hear footsteps crunching on the dusty ground, solid and confident. He listens to a drone of words from a voice he's known forever. He can't decide whether this is a good thing or not. Part of him knows, has always known, that he can't give up now. He can give up on himself, but never on d'Artagnan or Athos. How can he make them see that their sacrifice is too much?

"You shouldn't have come," he whispers, not sure who his words are aimed at, if anyone. Part of him wants Athos to scoop d'Artagnan up and run, to leave him here to suffer the consequences alone. He shakes his head to stop the downward spiral of despair, desperate to get his point across to his brothers-in-arms.

"Why would we not?" Athos's gentle words pierce the haze clustering around Aramis' thoughts and Aramis can't understand the confusion underlying the question.

"My life is not worth his," he mutters, and now he's said it, it seems more real. It has happened, he can't pretend he's imagining this all any more. Porthos is gone, his life given for Aramis' and Aramis doesn't believe he will ever be able to live with that knowledge, that responsibility.

"Aramis…" d'Artagnan begins before Athos interrupts with the assured confidence of experience and birthright.

"Your life is just as worthy as any of ours," Athos tells him.

But Aramis will not, cannot, believe him. How can Athos tells these lies when a man such as Porthos lies dead because of him? He doesn't understand why Athos, and d'Artagnan, don't hate him. In their position, he reflects, if they had been the cause of Porthos' death he would never be able to forgive them, let alone treat them with the compassion and respect currently radiating from these musketeers. He doesn't know how to make them understand.

"My life is not worth his," he repeats and then it's as if a damn has burst and he cannot stop. "My life is not worth his. My life is not worth his," over and over again, his voice fading until it becomes his world.

"This is all very touching." a voice cuts through his mantra, "But it's really not why we're here and quite frankly, it's tiresome. Either you shut him up, or we will."

Aramis doesn't hear, doesn't care what happens now. His refrain continues to fall from his mouth without any effort on his part. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognises this is probably the start of a breakdown and he should probably be fighting it. But the time for fighting has been and gone. There's nothing left worth fighting for.

And then there's a weight on his shoulder, warm and comforting, demanding his attention. Fingers curl gently into his flesh, like so often recently yet so different – caring, not cruel.

"You will not touch him again," Athos snarls and Aramis hears the determination in the words. For a few moments he allows himself a little hope. The words he's been clinging to fade into nothing and he leans into the touch, taking what warmth he can.

Athos' threat seems to have fallen on deaf ears though and Aramis freezes as he hears Descarte decree. "I will do what I chose, to whom I chose."

Aramis looks up, and it's more than he can take. d'Artagnan is as still as a statue and Thibaud is spinning a dagger around carelessly in front of his face. Aramis knows what the man can do with that knife and the memory of it slicing into his arms while he lay helpless among the filth of the makeshift dungeon with only the rats for company is too much for him. He cannot bear for another to suffer and his mind takes the only course of action left to it.

He is no longer in control of his body. He can still feel the hand on his shoulder and he thinks the grip has tightened but he's not sure. He's not sure of anything any more. Athos has to go to d'Artagnan, he reasons. He has to. But the thought of losing what little contact he has with the real world shakes him to the core. His muscles are quivering and he can't stop the shaking in his limbs. He feels Athos take a step forward and he resigns himself to being left alone again to face what may come.

But the weight of Athos' hand remains steadfast. He feels the vibrations running down Athos' arm as Descarte scoffs, "Really, Athos? You've already lost one. You would risk another? And for what?"

Aramis' world is contracting very quickly and effectively. His vision is blurring, and he falls back on the one thing he has always relied on. His faith.

The prayer falls easily from his lips, Latin learned at the seminary as a child springing forth like second nature. Most merciful Lord Jesus! by Thine agony and bloody sweat, and by Thy death, deliver me, I beseech Thee, from a sudden and unprovided death.

But his prayers are interrupted by the unthinkable. A shot rings out and Aramis' head shoots up from his supplication. He watches, hardly breathing, as Thibaud falls backwards, dragging d'Artagnan down with him. The world slows down and he scans the walls of the courtyard, years of instinct taking over, subduing the fear and panic he's been subjected to. The medic and soldier in him wants to go to d'Artagnan another part of him wants to know where this saviour has come from.

Porthos, he thinks. It must be Porthos. Hope soars in his heart like a dove and for the first time he allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there's a way out of this after all.

Descarte, it would appear, isn't happy. His movements are quicker than Athos and as the older musketeer pushes Aramis down so he is less of a target, Descarte is over the boy, his own musket out, head spinning, surveying the surroundings.

_We're looking for the same thing _, Aramis realises from his position on the ground. He finds the time to wish Athos had been a little more gentle but then he supposes the older man isn't aware of quite how bad a host Descarte has been. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a flash of metal and a mop of dark curls appear briefly above an outcrop of rocks before disappearing so quickly it has him wondering if he saw it at all.__

But it's all he needs to see. He would know that silhouette anywhere and it gives him the boost he needs. He catches Athos' eye and gives him a slight nod that he hopes says it all. I'm back. I'm okay. You can rely on me.

Which is just as well, because they are still hideously outnumbered and with d'Artagnan out cold and his own hands still tightly bound, Athos is effectively on his own down here.


	8. Chapter 8

Porthos has never been good at waiting when his friends' safety is in question. He may have the patience of a saint in a card game but put him in front of a real life, honest to goodness, matter of life or death situation, then the first thing he loses is his patience.

Lying on his back, watching the sun set gracefully and slowly over the horizon, he shivers. In the back of his mind he knows he should be paying more attention to his own condition but with the lives of his three dearest friends on the line a momentary chill is nothing. He may, he realises, regret this decision later but as long as there is a later he can live with that.

He absently lets his hand rest on his ribs, pressing down gently over the bullet wound there. The blood has dried and the waves of pain have receded from agonizing spikes to a gentle throb, reminding him how easily he could reopen the wound if he's not careful. He lets his fingers wander inside his shirt, probing the skin around the clotted blood. It feels hot to the touch, hotter than the rest of his torso and he knows he should worry about that. On reflection, he decides, maybe crawling along the dusty ground hadn't been one of his better ideas.

He closes his eyes briefly, allowing his other senses to take over. He can smell the heavy scent of honeysuckle and if he concentrates really hard he can just make out the unmistakable aroma of a stable in desperate need of mucking out. The breeze is gentle on his face and he can almost feel the daylight receding. He can hear the evening symphony created by the crickets and birds in harmony and wonders if it's like this every night or whether he's being treated to a special performance.

And then, as his hearing sharpens to new levels he can make out not just voices, but words floating up from the courtyard below.

"… very touching …"

"… shut him up …"

"… really, Athos …"

Porthos frowns, the disjointed words making little sense on their own but uniting in his head to form a picture more complete than he needs of the action playing out below him. Shaking his head, regretting the movement when a headache nags him, reminding him he's not in full health himself right now, he hauls himself to a sitting position, opening his eyes again to the world around him.

"This is going to hurt," he mutters to himself, protectively bringing an arm across his chest. He wonders if he can regain his original position without sliding along the ground this time. He rises to his knees, casts an eye around to satisfy himself that no one has gained an advantage on him before finishing the manoeuver, rocking up on to his heels.

Moving as swiftly as the pain in his side will allow, he shuffles to an outcrop of rocks, conveniently looking over the courtyard. A little voice at the back of his head is suggesting that maybe he should have made this his hideout previously but he squashes the thought quickly. There's no point thinking what if now. He's done what he's done and now he's got to make the best of it.

Straightening up as far as he dares, Porthos bites his lower lip to stave off the constant nagging pain from his side. His breath falters as he takes in the tableau below him. Athos has made it to Aramis' side and Porthos can't quite describe the relief he feels to see a solid hand on his friend's shoulder. He's known Aramis hasn't been alone but to actually see it with his own eyes eases a burden from his heart he didn't realise he'd been carrying. He finds himself nodding in satisfaction and allows himself a moment of amusement, wondering where the action came from.

d'Artagnan, however, doesn't appear to be faring so well. Athos seems to be making a declaration of leadership and Porthos doesn't know how he knows, but he senses there's a history between Athos and their antagonists. d'Artagnan has a dagger at his throat and the man behind him has a cold smile on his face.

Porthos' world stops. He can't tear his eyes away from the man behind d'Artagnan. Porthos learnt many things growing up in the Court, some good, some not so good, and the lessons have stayed with him for all this time. One of the skills he's picked up is the ability to read a man's face. He can't hear the conversation below but he can see the expression on the face behind d'Artagnan. He can see the muscles in his knife hand twitch and he knows the instant the man has made the decision to slice d'Artagnan's throat like a butcher slaughtering a lamb.

Looking back, Porthos can't remember the moment his musket was in position. He doesn't remember loading it but he supposes that's another throw back to his slightly unsavoury upbringing – never have an unloaded weapon in a dangerous situation, whether the danger is personal or not. He does remember shooting though. He remembers the retort of his weapon echoing in his ear, remembers the pull against his shoulder, sending shock waves down his arm and chest, remembers the sharp protest from his wound as he knows he's reopened his injury. And he remembers how the man behind d'Artagnan falls, dead the second he decided to pull the trigger.

He ducks back down behind his shelter of rock, cursing inwardly as he slowly thinks through the ramifications of his actions. There was, he considers, no alternative. Athos and Aramis were in no position to help the boy and there was no way he could have let him come to harm. Okay, so he's shown his hand now, nobody will believe he's dead any more. They're probably on their way to find him right now. And that, he thinks, isn't going to help anyone.

He sighs deeply, wondering what Athos is thinking at the moment. Hopefully, he's busy looking out for Aramis and d'Artagnan. Porthos groans quietly as he slips his hand over his ribs, only for it to come away covered in fresh blood, bright red and hot. What he needs, he decides, is a doctor, someone to stitch him up. But that would mean abandoning his brothers in arms and that is something that he cannot and will not ever do.

So, in the absence of a doctor, he needs a plan. Athos is the cool headed one of their band, Aramis the sweet talker and d'Artagnan the hot head of their group. Porthos isn't used to having to make these decisions but there's a time for thinking and a time for action. He counted at least a dozen men in the courtyard and he knows he can't tackle them alone but maybe, just maybe, if he can get to Athos, if they can free Aramis, if d'Artagnan isn't hurt too badly, then maybe they have a chance.


	9. Chapter 9

Athos pushes Aramis to the ground without even thinking about it. On reflection, he could have been a little more gentle about it, but when shots are fired and his men are unarmed his priority is to protect them, not to cosset them. He spares his comrade a quick glance, relieved to see a hint of life returning to his eyes.

Descarte is standing over d'Artagnan, his weapon drawn and Athos has a sense of déjà vu. He still can't place where he knows the man from but he thinks it's in the distant past rather than a recent encounter. None of his brothers-in-arms have recognised Descarte so his logic would appear to be holding strong at least.

Descarte turns to his men, and Athos has counted seven in the courtyard and a further four at various vantage points around the decrepit buildings surrounding them. He barks an order out and the musketeer stiffens. The man has just signed Porthos' death warrant, sending out a search party to find Thibaud's killer. Porthos, Athos knows, is wounded and likely to have aggravated his injury. Athos needs to divert Descarte; he needs to give Porthos as much of a chance as he can.

"What do you hope to gain from this?" he demands, cutting Descarte off mid speech, but too late to halt the hunt for Porthos. He feels Aramis hesitantly rise to his knees and is grateful for the moral support, comforted that his friend has enough life in him to offer that much.

Descarte doesn't move, his musket still pointing steadily at the fallen Gascon at his feet. He gives the boy a none too gentle nudge with his foot and d'Artagnan groans but doesn't regain consciousness.

"You really don't remember, do you?" Descarte moves his attention away from d'Artagnan and looks over to Athos. "After everything you did to my family, you just walked away and wiped us from your memory." He looks down at d'Artagnan again, drops to his haunches and tenderly – too tenderly for Athos' liking – brushes a stray lock of hair off the boy's face. "You took everything from me," he murmurs and Athos wonders if he's forgotten his audience. "You took everything from me and now I am simply repaying the favour."

Athos frowns, genuinely puzzled. He cannot recall the man in front of him although there is a familiarity about his features he cannot place. He doesn't like the way he's looking at d'Artagnan, the way he has let his hand come to rest on top of his head, the way he's still holding a gun way too close for comfort.

Descarte stands, abruptly, and looks Athos directly in the eye. Athos tries to suppress the shiver that inexplicably runs down his spine but he knows Aramis has seen it and can feel him trying to rise to his feet. He places a restraining hand on Aramis' shoulder, ignores the tremors coursing through the younger soldier and keeps him in his place.

If he were Aramis, he reflects, he would be full of questions. After all, the man has borne the consequences of his actions towards Descarte, whatever they may be. If anyone has the right to understand the situation, it's Aramis. He wishes he had an explanation to give him but the answers to his own questions are hanging around the edges of his mind, elusive and frustrating.

Athos watches warily as Descarte advances on him, staring directly at Athos, eyes never once wavering. He stops when he's mere inches away and bends forward at the waist, invading the musketeer's personal space in a way that Athos assumes he means to be intimidating but is actually just irritating.

"You took my freedom," he spits and it takes all of Athos' control not to wipe the spittle off his face. "You killed my brother. You ruined my life. And you remember none of it!"

Athos closes his eyes briefly, the face before him invading every corner of his mind, opening doors he had thought long closed. The realisation of who Descarte is hits him like a sledgehammer. He has attempted to block that period of his life so thoroughly with wine and spirits and now it seems it was all to no avail.

"I did your brother no harm," he states, assertively but gently. "I had no quarrel with him; he was a man of God. I'm sorry that he is dead," and he is, he would not wish the priest's life on anyone. "I do not know your story but for whatever it is that I did, I apologise."

Descarte shakes his head and points his musket at Aramis, stepping forward so the barrel of the gun is pressed to the side of his head. Aramis lets out a suppressed moan and Athos feels him sway to one side.

"You do not know my story because you did not stay long enough to find out. You didn't care enough for your people, Comte." His words are tinged with anger and grief and for a brief moment Athos can understand the man's wrath toward him. But as far as Athos is concerned, Descarte lost the right to be a figure for sympathy the minute he took Aramis, four days ago. His chances of redemption in the soldier's eyes are fading by the minute with every harm he does to Aramis or d'Artagnan.

Athos takes a deep breath, aware that Descarte's men are probably not far off finding Porthos. He tightens his hold on Aramis, unknowingly taking strength from the warmth and solidity of his friend. He takes solace in Aramis' response as the younger man leans into his grip, silently signaling that whatever secrets Athos and Descarte share, he will wait for Athos to share.

"I am willing to make amends for your personal grievances," he begins, "if you will only be more precise. I did not kill your brother and I did not take your liberty from you but if you will disclose how you believe I have wronged you…" He tails off, hoping Descarte can hear the sincerity in his tone.

But whatever Descarte is going to say is stalled in its infancy by d'Artagnan's pain filled groan as the boy slowly comes to his senses. Athos takes the opportunity to look at Aramis, locking eyes with him. He's reassured and gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Aramis seems more focused and determined than when they first found him but Athos is under no illusions that there is some way to go before he can rely on his fellow soldier completely; the last four days have clearly taken their toll on Aramis.

Descarte jerks his gun away from Aramis' head with a sharp motion, the barrel scraping along his cheekbone, leaving an angry welt in its wake. Their antagonist doesn't seem to care as he turns back to where d'Artagnan lies, curling in on himself in pain.

"Take them inside," he orders his remaining men before turning back to Athos. "I will find whoever killed Thibaud," he promises. "And I will have justice for all you have done."


	10. Chapter 10

The first thing d'Artagnan notices when he finally prises his eyes open is the drummer who appears to have taken up residence at the back of his skull and is currently beating a marching rhythm. His first reaction is to close his eyes again as the involuntary groan he makes threatens to set the drummer off on an encore. His second action is to bring his hands up to his head to alleviate the pain.

Which is when he realises he's still bound as tightly as ever. As his memory returns in a rush of images and emotions, his stomach rebels. He can't remember the last time he threw up in public, possibly because it had been due to alcohol which he still can't handle like his comrades, or possibly because he'd only been a small child. Either way, he decides, he's about to do it again.

As his stomach heaves, d'Artagnan becomes aware of a shadow passing over him. It's definitely man shaped and he thinks he ought to be concerned at the way it stops by his side but the combined forces of his head and stomach have left him little capacity for worrying about anything else at the moment. He can hear voices but his still muddled brain makes little sense of anything.

But when a hand clamps itself around his ankle, he's all vigilance and he's vaguely surprised how quickly he can snap himself back into soldier mode despite his physical frailties right now. He kicks out instinctively and allows himself a grim smile as his booted foot makes contact with a solid object which gives slightly under the force of the impact. Somebody's leg, he thinks with satisfaction.

It's a short lived victory though as the same leg replies with equal force, catching him below the ribs with a brutality he wasn't really expecting but, on reflection, should have known was coming. He coughs violently and his stomach reminds him how unready he is for this sort of activity. Somewhere in the haze floating around his mind he can hear someone shouting, possibly Athos, possibly Aramis. Whoever it is, they sound angry which, d'Artagnan reasons, could be a good thing or could signify something altogether different. He really wishes the drummer in his head would allow him some space to think.

When the hand grabs his ankle again, he lets himself go limp. Going on the attack did him no favours so this time he'll submit. It will, he thinks, at least give him a chance to recover. His captor, or an accomplice, takes hold of his other ankle and he's flipped back onto his stomach where his face reacquaints itself with the dusty and rough ground. As he's dragged across the courtyard he tries to lift his head enough to preserve some of the skin on his cheeks and forehead. He thinks it's working but he just can't get his chin high enough to prevent some nasty contact with the pebbles and rock littering the earth.

As his head makes intermittent contact with the ground, d'Artagnan finds his attention drifting. The drummer is still in his head but he's beating a retreat now and d'Artagnan's concentration seems to be on its way back from its sojourn. Somewhere along the line, the dusty ground has become solid brick and straw is scattered about sporadically. Abruptly he feels his legs dropped and he doesn't quite have time to slow their impact with the hard brick. He will, he muses, feel those bruises on his shins for some time to come.

He lies quietly for a few minutes, getting his bearings as best he can without moving. He can't hear any other voices which is disturbing; if he's been moved out of the courtyard, where are Athos and Aramis? Surely they've been moved too. He takes a hesitant breath, experimenting with how deep he can inhale before his ribs, and head, raise too much of a protest. Relieved, he discovers he can fill his lungs to near capacity before a sharp remonstration from his torso prevents any further experimentation.

Several deep breaths later, d'Artagnan is still surrounded by silence. Maybe, he thinks, Athos and Aramis are with him but unable to speak for some reason. After all, he surmises, he was unconscious himself – it's not unfathomable that the same fate befell his friends. There is, he decides, only one way to find out.

He steels himself for the discomfort he knows is about to come and slowly rolls over on to his back. The exertion is more than he was expecting and he takes a moment to catch his breath and let the drummer fade back to a gentle tapping. He takes the opportunity to study the ceiling above him. The rafters are old and rotting away. In places d'Artagnan can see the sky peeking through holes, the stars affording him a little light over and above the fading dusk.

Hauling himself to a sitting position, d'Artagnan grimaces as his ribs protest and his shoulders take the time to remind him that they too would really appreciate a little freedom. He is, as he thought, in the abandoned stables and he is quite, quite alone.

He sighs and leans back against the wall of the stall into which he's been carelessly tossed. Maybe, he thinks, he's not as important as Athos or Aramis. He's surprised by the pang of insecurity that shoots through him. Although, he muses, this might be to his advantage. If he's not important, maybe Descarte will forget about him. But as he tests the ropes for the countless time, it appears his luck just isn't with him today. Destiny, it appears, has decided d'Artagnan needs company and conversation after all.

d'Artagnan freezes as he hears the old stable doors swing back, creaking and groaning with years of neglect. He shrinks as far back into the shadows as he can but Descarte's footsteps are sure and swift. Within seconds he's standing over the Gascon, a lighted torch in one hand and a dagger glinting in the other.

"Do you know why you're here, boy?" the older man asks, his tone soft and curious. For a moment d'Artagnan can almost imagine him to be concerned for his welfare. He raises his eyes to the man and wishes instantly he hadn't. Descarte's tone of voice does not match his face and d'Artagnan's breath catches in his throat. He has seen wickedness and evil many times but never so concentrated in one man.

Descarte smiles, cold and void of all emotion. "Well?" he asks. "Has Athos never spoken of me?"

d'Artagnan shakes his head, unable to tear his eyes away from Descarte's mouth, watching with fearful fascination as the man's pale lips move, creasing the skin around his cheeks, creating dimples where they have no business being.

"I'm disappointed," Descarte continues, moving nearer to d'Artagnan. He stretches out the arm holding the torch and d'Artagnan can't help flinching. Descarte spots the movement and laughs softly as he places the flaming beacon in a holder on the wall. "But not surprised," he finishes, squatting down by d'Artagnan's head. d'Artagnan can't help himself and tries to shuffle backwards, away from the man he's come to hate without knowing why.

Descarte, it turns out, has lightening moves and he reaches out, grabbing d'Artagnan by the upper arm, stilling any further movement the boy might attempt. His grip is far tighter than necessary and d'Artagnan can feel the bruises forming already.

"Let go of me," he hisses, stronger than he feels.

"Do you know where your friends are now?" Descarte continues, ignoring the way d'Artagnan tries to pull away from him. "They're still out there," he nods toward the door to the courtyard. "Athos and your other friend, the would be priest." He stops and looks at d'Artagnan as though he's just said something of great significance but whatever it was, d'Artagnan has no idea. He wonders if he should be showing some sort of reaction or not.

"Why?" d'Artagnan ventures when it appears Descarte is disinclined to say anything else. "Why Aramis? Why take him?"

Descarte laughs and removes his grip from d'Artagnan's arm. He gives the Gascon a gentle, pseudo friendly tap on the face. "Why indeed," he smiles. "Ask Athos."

"I would," d'Artagnan states calmly, "but in case you've failed to notice, I'm in here and he's out there. Hardly conducive circumstances for a conversation."

"No matter." Descarte dismisses the topic of conversation in a way that leaves d'Artagnan confused and unsettled. "Get up."

d'Artagnan tilts his head at his oppressor. He knows that were Athos with him, he would be telling him to comply, that there's a time to conserve energy and a time to expend it. So he follows his internal mentor and struggles to pull himself upright, using the wall at his back to help.

Except it doesn't help and Descarte is not a patient man. By the time d'Artagnan has tried, and failed, twice he lets out a menacing huff and grabs the musketeer roughly by the arms, pulling him to a standing position.

"Don't fool with me, child," he warns and d'Artagnan raises his eyebrows incredulously at being called a child. He opens his mouth to protest the endearment but Descarte is already hauling him across the stable to the stall opposite. It suddenly occurs to d'Artagnan that the man intends to chain him to the wall, probably for the night, possibly longer. It's undignified and something in d'Artagnan's mind snaps at being treated like an animal.

He stops dead in his tracks, causing Descarte to miss his footing slightly.

"I'm not a child," he hisses, "and I'm not an animal."

Descarte whirls around, fury written across his face and d'Artagnan recoils as the man spins him round, slamming him up against the wall, head bouncing off the wooden surface. Descarte raises his hand as though to backhand the Gascon but at the last minute he stops, instead leaning into d'Artagnan's personal space.

"You are what I say you are," he whispers, far too close for d'Artagnan's liking, "so don't you forget it." The threatened slap becomes a gentle, unwelcome caress on d'Artagnan's face.

"Men have died for less."


	11. Chapter 11

Aramis thought he had a handle on what was going on. He had been kidnapped and beaten. Neither deed is new to the musketeer but he generally likes to know what he's done to deserve such treatment. Now he understands it to have been an act of brutality with the sole purpose of luring Athos to Descarte's hideout. He listens to the exchange between the two men, keeping half an eye on d'Artagnan where he still lies motionless, wishing he could make sense of the conversation.

He knows Athos to be a man with a dark past, a past which has, on occasion, reared its ugly head with unfortunate consequences, but he's never enquired more of the older man than he has been willing to divulge to his comrades. Every man, he reasons, has a past and some are best left behind where they belong. He, himself, has a few secrets that he thinks will one day cause unforetold wretchedness to himself or his friends.

He tries to ignore the gun on his face although it's nothing new to him. The cold metal against his skins is almost a relief to him. His sense of self-preservation has never been very strong when those he loves are threatened and d'Artagnan has wormed his way very securely into that category in a surprisingly short space of time. If the gun is on him, he reasons, d'Artagnan is safe for the moment, Athos is safe for the moment and in his heart he prays fervently that Porthos is safe for the moment although the dispatch of a search party has set his heart beating faster than he is comfortable with.

As he watches the youngest member of their quartet slowly come back to the here and now, he winces in sympathy as the boy groans and rolls sideways, emptying the contents of his stomach on the bone dry ground. That, Aramis diagnoses from a distance, is surely a concussion. The conversation between Athos and Descarte comes to an abrupt end and as Descarte drags the pistol viciously from his face, Aramis feels pain more for the potential threat it now poses to his friends than the harsh sting lancing across his cheek.

He watches with growing resentment as Descarte takes his frustrations out on d'Artagnan, feels Athos' hand on his shoulder grounding him just as everything seems to be in danger of floating away again and then, without thinking about it, without even realizing he's doing it, he's shouting a protest over the treatment d'Artagnan is receiving at the hands of the man he's come to despise over the last four days.

It makes no difference and he watches impotently as d'Artagnan is dragged from the yard to one of the disused stables, one Aramis hasn't had the fortune of becoming acquainted with yet. But he will, he promises himself. He will move heaven and earth to restore d'Artagnan's liberty to him.

He feels Athos' hand tighten imperceptibly on his shoulder as Descarte turns back to the pair. Maybe, Aramis thinks, maybe Athos can read his mind and knew he was about to struggle to his feet. He wonders if the older musketeer knows it would have been a futile effort; Aramis doubts he would make it more than three feet at the moment before collapsing again. He directs his energy instead to glaring at their tormentor who has come to a halt mere inches away from Athos' face.

"Are you happy yet?" Descarte growls, eyes flicking briefly from Athos to Aramis and the receding figures of his subordinates – those spreading out to find Porthos and those who have so unceremoniously deprived them of their youngest member.

Aramis feels Athos stiffen and finally remove the security of his hold from Aramis. Still on his knees, Aramis has to strain to hear Athos' reply.

"I am neither happy nor do I understand why you feel compelled to this course of action," he rumbles, not yet angry but neither does Aramis detect any compassion. "You have no reason to hurt my friends. They have caused you no harm nor bear you any ill will."

Aramis has to hold back a snort at that. During his time with Descarte, he has had plenty of opportunity to garner enough ill will toward the man to go around. He doesn't really want to think about it but he expects by now d'Artagnan has accumulated his own ill will and as for Porthos – it doesn't take much to offend the former resident of the Court and Aramis would not wish to be one on the receiving end his friend's wrath.

"But you have caused me much pain and I bear you much ill will," Descarte responds. "Do not tell me you would not seek revenge if you were in my position."

Aramis turns his head to look up at Athos. He takes a moment to reflect on how imposing the older man is, how it takes a brave man to stand up to him. That, he muses, or a very stupid one. He wonders which Descarte is. He hopes for the latter but suspects it's the former from his brief acquaintance. Athos is standing ramrod straight, muscles taut and primed ready for action although what that action might be Aramis is unsure.

He tears his eyes away from Athos and scans the skyline. The sun has faded into nothing and in the dusk the stars are beginning to appear. He can make out the silhouettes of Descarte's men scouring the scrubland for Porthos.

"I would not take your course of action," he hears Athos saying. Squinting into the distance as he wonders with hope in his heart if that particular outline by the outcrop of trees is more familiar than the others, he hears Descarte's laughter and the coldness of it sends a shiver down his spine.

Turning his attention back to the courtyard he is in, he starts, realizing that Descarte has turned from them and is heading to the stable block where he saw d'Artagnan disappear from view. The villain stops mere feet away from the door and glares at Athos one final time.

"My brother was a priest, a man of God. He was my only family." Descarte looks to Aramis and waves his pistol towards the kneeling man. "You have a priest among your chosen companions and a boy you care for more than I wish to understand. I have nothing left." He tilts his head to one side and eyes both musketeers before turning away from them, striding with clear purpose towards the place where d'Artagnan lies hidden from their view. Stopping with one hand on the handle of the door he wheels around on his heel.

"Tell me, how is that fair?" he demands before retreating into the shelter of the stable. "How can I rest until I have had my vengeance?"


	12. Chapter 12

Porthos shifts awkwardly on his backside; the waiting is taking its toll on his muscles and his nerves. He knows he's bought some time for his compatriots but he's not stupid enough to think he's solved all their problems. d'Artagnan's life has ben saved for now but if he were the one in charge down there, he'd be furious right now and refusing to let anyone best him.

Maybe, he muses, he has more in common with their adversary than any one of them realises. He listens out for something – he doesn't know what exactly, maybe the sounds of a fight, something to give him hope for his brothers, his friends. He is rewarded by an ominous silence broken only by the breeze whispering in his ear. If he were a man given to romantic inclinations he could almost convince himself of words of reassurance on the gentle gusts of summer air but his life has been far too hard for him to allow himself such frivolities.

His torso is throbbing in time with his heartbeat and he really, really ought to do something about the gently seeping wound. He grits his teeth and cautiously pulls himself to a sitting position. Looking down, he pulls his jacket carefully away from his body. It comes away easily which is a pleasant surprise although all that really means is that his blood is still too fresh to stick to anything. Porthos supposes he should be grateful for small mercies.

He pulls off the scarf wrapped around his head and balls it up, intending to use it to staunch the drip, drip, drip of his life running away from him. Taking a deep breath, he lifts the hem of his shirt and pulls it up over his injury. He closes his eyes briefly and steels himself for his first real look at the damage.

It's not as bad as he thought, or feels, he acknowledges with a grim smile. The flow of blood is so sluggish now he reckons he'll have it stopped in the next five minutes. A sudden pang of loneliness shoots through him as he pushes his wadded up scarf into his ribs as hard as he can. This, he thinks, is Aramis' job, not his. When he's got them all out of this, he'll make sure Aramis looks at it properly he promises himself. It never once occurs to him that they might not get out of this.

He uncurls the scarf and wishes he had another to hand. But he doesn't and needs must. So he wraps it around his ribs as a makeshift bandage and ties a knot in it as tightly as he dares, tight enough to control the seepage of blood but loose enough to allow him freedom to breathe comfortably.

In the brief pause he allows himself to regain his breath, he hears the sound of gates being drawn open and he knows this can mean only one thing. The men below are no longer content to rest on their laurels – and Porthos briefly wonders when he started using phrases like that – but are on the move, seeking vengeance for the man he killed without a second thought. He knows this means he's no longer safe, his refuge is no longer safe and he must move.

His hand seeks out his pistol, reassurance to be found in its cool solidity. He knows his sword is still in its sheath at his waist as he can feel it digging into his thigh where he is lying on it.

Shuffling forward as far as he dares, Porthos surveys the scene below. d'Artagnan is no longer in sight which worries him more than he cares to admit, but Athos and Aramis are still in the courtyard and he doesn't need to hear the words that are being spoken to know that neither soldier is happy. But, he reflects, they have the strength still to vocalize their feeling and that, he knows, means neither spirit is broken. It doesn't bode well for d'Artagnan though.

His observations are cut short by the sound of footsteps shuffling over the barren landscape. He shakes his head in despair for the youth of today and their apparent lack of training in the subtle art of hunting. He takes cover behind his now familiar rock and searches the area for any sign of which way his pursuers may be coming.

He spots them easily and he wonders if they truly have their heart in this quest; they are making no effort to conceal themselves and as he watches, a group of three split and go their separate ways. Porthos blinks, hardly able to bring himself to believe their stupidity. This, he decides, is definitely going to be much easier than he had anticipated. Even injured, he could have taken all three together – individually it hardly seems worth the effort.

He sits back and lets the trio wander, seemingly aimlessly, further and further away from him. They are, he decides, of no consequence to him and his thoughts returns to his brothers in arms below him. He needs a way to get to them that doesn't involve himself being on the wrong end of a musket and at the moment, with the majority of their foe seeking him out, this seems to be the best opportunity that he has been afforded up to now.

As far as he can tell, Athos still retains his limited liberty while Aramis, although still restrained, has regained his senses enough to be a feared opponent in their eventual fight for freedom. Porthos cannot tell from what he has seen how badly injured his best friend is but he knows the man well enough to know he can be relied on in these situations, even when perhaps he should take a back seat. If Aramis is spitting insults, which Porthos has no doubt he is, then he is capable of taking his share of the action when it comes.

Which leaves d'Artagnan. Porthos is more worried about the boy than he would have expected to be. Inexperience mixed with youth and a hot temper is not a good combination. Porthos has learnt that the hard way. The three musketeers have taken the young Gascon under their tutelage with enthusiasm but now, Porthos reflects, they may have been too lenient on the boy, protecting him from the harsh realities of their lives out of a misguided sense of duty.

Hiding up here, skulking like a coward, Porthos decides, is doing nobody any good – this sitting around doing nothing doesn't suit him. His mind made up, resolve sitting firmly in his heart, he casts a precautionary look around before rising carefully to his feet. His three stalkers are gone, whether into the distance, over hill, behind trees, Porthos neither knows nor cares. He's been in this profession long enough to trust his instincts and right now they're telling him those men are of no concern.

He makes his way down through the scrub towards the courtyard and decaying buildings with the skill gained through years of practice, experience and innate ability. Once or twice he stops, listening to noises which appear out of place to him, but each time he identifies the sound as night animals awaking and scurrying around.

Porthos has almost made it to the decrepit outer wall of the crumbling manor house when instinct makes him freeze, immobile where he stands. He doesn't know why he's compelled to stop; the silence from the other side of the wall is disconcerting but not worrying. Maybe, he thinks, it's the way the shadows on the wall look wrong, out of place for the amount of light dwindling in the sky.

Whatever is was, he reflects later, it probably saved his life.


	13. Chapter 13

"How can I rest until I have had my vengeance?"

Descarte's words ring in Athos' head as the man in question disappears into the stable block where d'Artagnan is, presumably, putting up a fight. His history with Descarte is more complicated than he can really put into words but he knows he has to try; he owes it to his comrades, the men who have become his family over the time he has known them.

He can feel Aramis at his side, takes strength from the warmth he senses radiating from the man who has borne the brunt of his past more than any of them. He looks down to where Aramis is still kneeling on the ground, his own eyes darting between the stable block and Athos, uncertainty written across his features. Athos hates that he's the one to have been responsible for the look, hates that whatever is happening to d'Artagnan is his fault, hates the duty he has inadvertently put on Porthos' shoulders.

He glares at the men Descarte has left behind him, admittedly now far fewer than before, and bends down, grasping Aramis firmly but tenderly by the shoulders. He shakes his head in reassurance as the man quivers involuntarily at the touch and resolves once more that Descarte will pay for his actions. Gently he raises Aramis to his feet, supporting him constantly as Aramis finds his feet, deliberately ignoring the ever increasing shaking of his companion's legs. This, he knows to his regret, is his fault and no matter how often or how adamantly he will be told otherwise, for he knows they will, he will never accept anything less than full responsibility for Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos' injuries and misfortunes in this regard.

Descarte's men seem unsure whether to intervene or not. It is, Athos reflects, as though they no longer have any idea what to do with them. In other circumstances he would laugh but their uncertainty could prove dangerous. A body of men with a mission follows rules and routines, making them predictable, exposing their weaknesses. Men whose actions have no sense to them are erratic and impulsive.

Athos puts them out of his mind as he turns Aramis to look at him. Aramis appears lost, scared and hurt, his eyes darting everywhere, resting on nothing. Athos takes his hands from his friend's shoulders and gently places one on either side of his face, turning Aramis to look directly at him. He's worried by how long it seems to take Aramis to focus on his face but when he does, when he finally acknowledges Athos' presence, he relaxes visibly and physically, leaning into the hands cradling him with such tenderness.

"This man needs to rest," Athos declares, throwing the words over his shoulder with the authority borne of years of leadership. His tone brooks no argument and, to his surprise, the men seem to straighten up at his command. He lets one hand drop and turns to seek out the new second in command.

The men shuffle their feet, looking from one to the other as though seeking out a spokesman, a man willing to take responsibility for decision making. After an uncertain few moments, a small, broad shouldered man steps forward. He nods towards a door hanging half off its hinges.

"Take him in there." He gestures with one hand, other still on the pommel of his sword. Athos nods once and, without looking back, guides Aramis towards the indicated shelter, muttering reassurances in his ear when the soldier beside him falters. He ignores the man following them at a healthy distance.

The shelter they have been afforded is dark and damp, hardly conducive to allowing Aramis the rest and recuperation he so clearly needs. But Athos will take it. They have been afforded solitude and Athos will not complain about that. The floor is filthy and the air rank, neither of which will help Aramis back to full strength. But Athos doesn't need him at full strength, just mobile, coherent and focused.

He finds a relatively clear spot on the floor and settles Aramis down. He tries to ignore the way his comrade's eyes don't stray from the door; tries to convince himself the man is simply standing guard over them both. Athos moves round until he is standing behind Aramis where he can get to the cruel bonds securing his arms tightly together.

He drops his hands down to Aramis' arms, determined to release him from his bonds, but Aramis flinches at the touch, twisting away from Athos' touch with a sharp intake of breath.

Athos freezes, resting his fingers on Aramis' wrists. "It's just me," he reassures him, unconsciously stroking the fragile skin, coming to rest on Aramis' pulse point. "You're safe now."

He knows the moment he's got through to Aramis when he feels his muscles loosen and his head drops, the vigil he's been keeping on the door abandoned now in exhaustion.

"Athos?" The word is so quiet Athos wonders if he's imagined it.

"You're safe," he repeats and wishes it were true. But for now it's what he believes Aramis needs to hear and he's happy to oblige, to give the man some respite from whatever memories are haunting him.

Aramis nods once and falls back into silence. Athos takes advantage of his acceptance and drops his eyes back to the ropes biting into Aramis' skin. Athos feels the fury he had thought buried, resurrecting itself as he contemplates the angry red skin on his friend's wrists, swollen around the ropes so that the bonds themselves have become embedded in the flesh. Dried blood informs Athos that Aramis has, at some point, tried, and failed, to wriggle free. All in all, he admits to himself, this is going to hurt Aramis as much, if not more, than leaving the rope where it is.

He picks at the rope with his fingers, testing the strength with which the knots hold. Aramis' struggles with it have tightened the strands to the extent that Athos cannot possibly free him with his bare hands. He sighs deeply, regretting it the instant Aramis' head spins round and big, wide eyes meet his.

"I'm sorry," Athos murmurs. "I can't undo these without a knife."

"It's okay," Aramis tells him, softly. "I understand."

But Athos won't give up that easily. He pats Aramis on the shoulder and stands up to explore their prison. It's a possibility, Athos reasons, that there is something here to help them. Descarte's men aren't the most astute although they follow their leader blindly. He scans their surroundings, deciding this was once a storehouse of some description. Hope builds in him as the shadows twist and turn and become more concrete shapes. In the darkest corner, he spots something that might just be what he's looking for.

He's three strides away when Aramis speaks, a voice cracked with disuse or abuse Athos can't decide.

"Who is he? Descarte?" Aramis asks. "What is he to you?"

Athos freezes. He knew this question would come but he had hoped to only explain once. But of all of them, Aramis deserves honesty and openness from him. The answer he has to give is one that promises to open old wounds, cause him pain all over again – pain he's long since buried away in the depths of despair and alcohol and silence. He doesn't know if he can go through it again without breaking completely.

But he owes it to Aramis. He owes it to all of them and if he should break then that is only what he deserves.

"Before I came to Paris," he begins, hesitantly, unwilling to put voice to his actions, "I lived a very different life. A quiet life. I bothered no-one and no-one bothered me. Or so I thought." He stops, lost in memories he had hoped to never relive. He's grateful that Aramis does not interrupt his silence, does not break his reverie.

He turns back to Aramis and through the gloom he can tell the other man is watching him with curiosity. His resolve almost breaks and he wishes with all his heart he could forego this confession. But then he thinks of the four days Aramis has waited for them, he thinks of d'Artagnan's current suffering across the courtyard, he thinks of Porthos and his selflessness in action. He thinks of how they have all suffered for his sake already and he knows he can no longer keep his past to himself.

And somewhere, deep inside, he knows he should have told them long ago.


	14. Chapter 14

d'Artagnan feels Descarte's words reverberate round the stable block. Men have died for less echoes in his head as he watches the older man with trepidation. Somewhere along the line, d'Artagnan thinks, this man has lost his compassion and, quite possibly, his humanity. His words are cold but well chosen and d'Artagnan is quite sure at this point he is meant to be cowering beneath the weight of the threat.

But d'Artagnan isn't a man to be intimidated so easily. As Descarte continues to invade his personal space, his hand still resting uncomfortably on d'Artagnan's cheek, the young Gascon straightens up and attempts to stare him out.

Descarte notices immediately and laughs, patting d'Artagnan patronizingly before pushing him aside. d'Artagnan tries to maintain his balance, and his poise, but fatigue and temper get the better of him and he loses his footing, stumbling slightly. It's undignified but d'Artagnan doesn't care. Descarte lets him falter before stepping forward again.

"You're nothing here, boy," he hisses, spittle covering his chin. He swipes it away brusquely, leaning up close to the musketeer, so close d'Artagnan can smell the decaying odour of his last meal. "Do you have any idea what I'm going to do to you? To Aramis? To Athos?"

d'Artagnan freezes as the man utters the names of three of the most important people in his life. The honest answer is no, he has no idea. But conversely he doubts Descarte has any idea what he intends to do to him when he gets free, because d'Artagnan has no doubt that he will get free and when he does Descarte will regret the day he set eyes on Aramis.

In the meantime, though, it's his job to stay alive but the look in his tormentor's eyes are making that option look like it may not be that easy. Somewhere in the depths of his eyes, d'Artagnan can see a hatred, a personal hatred for him, that he doesn't understand.

Descarte shakes his head and shoves d'Artagnan hard in the chest. The soldier stumbles backwards, hitting the wall with his back, and comes to an uncomfortable stop there. Descarte has fallen back into silence and d'Artagnan isn't sure what he prefers – the veiled threats or the ominous silence.

He doesn't have long to reflect on his preferences however as Descarte kicks out and sweeps d'Artagnan's legs from under him. He falls unceremoniously to the floor and topples over on to his side. Having his hand bound behind his back is becoming tiresome and more than a little inconvenient. He wonders what Athos would be doing in this situation and decides he would probably be talking his way out of it with diplomacy or threats of violence.

d'Artagnan's not a diplomat though, never has been, never will be. His reaction is instinctive, animalistic and heartfelt. He kicks out blindly at his antagonist, neither knowing nor caring where his foot will fall. As luck would have it, he lands a solid blow against Descarte's booted ankle and he allows himself a modicum of satisfaction at the surprised grunt he elicits from the older man.

His triumph is short lived however. d'Artagnan belatedly wonders if it had been such a smart move after all as Descarte's grunt quickly becomes a howl of rage and the man lashes out at him, becoming a blur of fists and feet aimed at the fallen man's body. Descarte is indiscriminate in his aim and d'Artagnan feels the full force of his fury in his ribs, over his legs, across his shoulders and finally a glancing, ill aimed blow to the side of his head which has the power to knock his vision sideways. For one mortifying moment d'Artagnan thinks he's going to throw up again as a brutal kick connects solidly with the soft flesh of his stomach.

As d'Artagnan rolls over, gagging and coughing and desperately trying to regain some composure, Descarte bends over him and grabs hold of the collar of his jacket, pulling him up until their faces are mere centimeters apart.

"Do you know why I don't just kill you here and now?" he demands.

d'Artagnan shakes his head, regretting it the instant he does it. "Why don't you?" he spits.

Descarte grabs his chin and forces d'Artagnan's head up until the Gascon has no choice but to meet his eye. What he sees chills him to the bone but he cannot bring himself to look away. The older man's face is a tableau of loathing. d'Artagnan hasn't been in Paris long enough to make many enemies, although he will admit to one or two so far, but the face he's looking at right now is truly one of a man who wishes him nothing but harm.

"What exactly are you to Athos?" Descarte ponders and the question takes d'Artagnan by surprise. He had been expecting more abuse, more intimidation and threats but the question sounds absurdly genuine. He frowns, his face aching where Descarte's final blow landed.

But it seems Descarte does not wish to wait for an answer. His grip on d'Artagnan's face tightens and the boy cannot help but wince as his fingers dig remorselessly into his jaw and cheeks. There will, d'Artagnan acknowledges, be bruises there by morning.

"I had a brother once," Descarte whispers, and d'Artagnan's confusion grows further. "He was younger than me by four years and yet his wisdom and compassion was an example to all of us. I looked up to him more than any other man." He stops and closes his eyes, seemingly lost in memories d'Artagnan can only guess at. Opening them again, he fixes a cold glare on the boy's face. "Do you have any idea what it's like to lose someone like that? How it feels to have that ripped away from you because someone thinks they are better than you? That your place in life is worth less than theirs?"

d'Artagnan feels his blood run cold. The description Descarte is putting forward of Athos is so far from his own experience of the man that he genuinely fears for his assailant's sanity. And that makes him even more dangerous than he originally thought. Athos, as far as d'Artagnan is concerned, has never put himself before anybody in terms of self worth. If anything, he muses, the man does himself a great disservice by forswearing his past and rightful position in life.

The musketeer jerks his head in an attempt to dislodge Descarte's painful grip on his face. He succeeds long enough to glare at the man before him and hiss, "You're wrong".

Descarte laughs and pushes d'Artagnan away from him roughly. He stands up and looks down on the musketeer at his feet.

"Youth has many advantages," he sermonizes, "but it also has many disadvantages. Blind faith is one of them." He moves to d'Artagnan's side, just out of sight and d'Artagnan turns his head as far as he can in order to keep him in view. As Descarte moves completely out of his line of vision, he can hear the sound of chains being dragged along the cobbled floor of the stables.

"You know nothing of life yet, child, and you know nothing of Athos." The words are gentle and d'Artagnan has to strain to hear them over the scraping and clanking of chains. Descarte reappears, dropping an ominous looking bundle heavily to the ground. He regards d'Artagnan coldly before pulling a knife from his belt, twirling it casually between his fingers. "I, on the other hand," he continues, "know everything there is know about him. About him and his companions – you included."

He grabs hold of d'Artagnan by his hair and pulls him roughly forward before leaning over him and slicing through the ropes binding his hands together, carelessly nicking the flesh above d'Artagnan's wrists. This, d'Artagnan thinks, is his opportunity. All he needs to do now is grab Descarte and a swift clash of heads would end this here and now. Unfortunately his arms simply fall to his side, limp and heavy. Hours of being bound in an unnatural position have numbed his nerves to the point where the rope is no longer needed.

Frustration vies with the cold, hard realisation that his chances of escape are diminishing by the minute as Descarte grasps his sleeve and yanks his arms forward. The numbness is fading only to be replaced by sharp, stabbing pains in his shoulder as sensation returns to his muscles. The cold, hard shackle Descarte snaps around his wrist is heavy and even if the older man hadn't attached the other end to an iron ring in the floor d'Artagnan knows he wouldn't be able to go far with it.

Descarte surveys his work and moves backwards, out of d'Artagnan's reach. d'Artagnan considers it a pointless manoeuver on his part but watches him warily anyway. The older man smiles at him and sits down opposite him. It's almost, d'Artagnan thinks wryly, as though he's about to tell him a bedtime story.

"Athos isn't the man you think he is," Descarte starts. "Let me enlighten you..."


	15. Chapter 15

Aramis studies the older musketeer's face. He's known him for many years and thought he knew every facial expression Athos has, but this one is new even to him. His friend's face is shuttered, closed off and frighteningly cold. Aramis has always joked that he wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of Athos but right now he's wondering if his question was out of place.

When Athos opens his mouth to answer, Aramis doesn't know what he's expecting – a tale of battles and treachery, of gallantry and morals. He's surprised by Athos' first words.

"Before I came to Paris I lived a very different life. A quiet life. I bothered no-one and no-one bothered me. Or so I thought."

There is a long silence, so long that Aramis begins to wonder if Athos has forgotten he's there. He doesn't want to shatter the moment but there's a bubble in his chest that's desperate to break free. He tries to stifle the cough but fails miserably as a wet, rasping hack forces its way past his lips. He wishes his hands were free so he could wipe the spittle off his chin, embarrassed by the sight he must present to Athos.

Athos frowns and Aramis is puzzled by his comrade's expression. But his confusion is soon pushed to the back of his mind, conquered by the sudden and agonizing pain ripping through his chest, starting in his lungs and sending tendrils of hurt down every fibre of his very being. He doubles up as best he can, coughing uncontrollably until he's left gasping for breath, tears running down his face, spittle covering his chin.

For a brief moment he forgets where he is, everything has paled into insignificance in light of this new sensation. Then a touch on his shoulder has him rocketing back to reality. He feels a hand in his hair and tenses, ready for the brutal yank he's become accustomed to. But it doesn't come. Fingers curl gently through the long locks and Aramis wishes his hair were cleaner. It's a ridiculously random thought, given the circumstances, and he laughs, slightly hysterically.

Then his head is pulled gently upwards until he is eye to eye with Athos. Through watery eyes he sees concern and a cleverly concealed panic. Anyone else, he muses, would miss the fear in Athos' eyes but Aramis has fought and played alongside this man for so long there's very little hidden any more.

"Aramis…" The older musketeer trails off as he manipulates Aramis' head from side to side, studying him intensely, so intensely Aramis begins to feel like a specimen in a mortician's catacomb.

Then Athos pulls his shirt free from his breeches and in one swift move he rips the fabric. With a tenderness that many, most even, would believe impossible from the man, Athos dabs gently at Aramis' face, wiping away the cough induced saliva. Aramis tries to nod in thanks but Athos is looking at the cloth in his hand.

"You're bleeding," he states, showing Aramis the soiled cloth. "Where are you hurt?"

Aramis frowns. His ribs hurt; his head hurts; his back hurts. He thinks it might be easier to tell his friend where it doesn't hurt.

"It doesn't matter," Athos assures him and Aramis starts, realising he'd drifted somewhere along the line. Athos' hand is no longer in his hair but instead he can feel firm but gentle touches over his scalp, down his neck, over his shoulders and finally, painfully, over his ribs.

He can't help the sharp intake of breath as Athos finds a particularly tender spot which, in turn, sets off another bout of coughing.

"I'm sorry," Athos mutters but Aramis needs more than platitudes to take his mind off the pain. Athos is lifting his shirt to inspect the damaged flesh of his torso and Aramis steels himself for the spikes of agony he knows are going to accompany the soldier's ministrations, no matter how tender he tries to be.

"Tell me about your 'quiet life'," he gasps, screwing his eyes shut in preparation for Athos' field medicine.

Athos pauses, fingers grazing Aramis' brutalised body. His hand comes to rest above his heart. "There was a woman," he starts and Aramis wishes he had the energy to make a smart comment. "We were very much in love, or so I thought." He prods gently at Aramis' ribs, murmuring apologies when Aramis can't hold back a whimper. "She was everything I ever wanted," he continues. "Beautiful, graceful, intelligent, funny. I had our future planned – we would be happy in the countryside, just us and our children, surrounded by friends and family."

He stops and Aramis opens his eyes, wondering when he closed them. Athos is sitting back on his haunches, studying him intensely and Aramis tries to conjure up a winning smile. He knows he's failed when Athos frowns.

"I should stop," he decides. "You need to sleep."

Aramis can't quite explain the sudden panic those words provoke in him. He knows he's safe, knows Athos won't willingly let any harm come to him but he can't do it. He can't close his eyes in this place. The coughing has diminished and Athos doesn't look too worried right now and although the pain in his chest has set up a constant, strong throb.

"No!" he exclaims, a little more vehemently than he'd meant to. "No," he repeats, more softly. "Please. I need to hear your voice. Tell me more about her." He hates the pathetic tone in his request and he tries not to care but it seems that's just one more thing he can't do any more.

Athos sighs. "Her name was Anne," he murmurs. "She came to live on my estate with her brother, the local priest. She was carefree in a way I longed to be and before I knew it I was in love. We married shortly after – her brother performed the ceremony. I truly believed my life was perfect."

Aramis finds himself nodding in silent agreement, his thoughts wandering back to a time when he thought he'd found perfect love. He smiles ruefully, remembering lost love and the life he thought he'd wanted.

Athos is still speaking and Aramis screws up his brow in an effort to concentrate on what his friend is saying. Things are becoming difficult follow and he's putting it down to extreme exhaustion but he knows telling this story is hard for Athos and he won't do him the discourtesy of passing out half way through the tale.

"It turns out she wasn't who she said she was," Athos is saying. "Neither was her brother. She was a killer, Aramis. Nothing more than a common criminal, a mistress of deceit. I don't even know if she loved me. She and the priest were lovers, not brother and sister." He stops and takes a deep breath. "When I discovered her past, I did what any law abiding citizen would have done, even though it destroyed me. The executioner took her."

Athos stops and Aramis can't think of a single thing he can say to him. In other circumstances he would pull the older man into a manly hug even though Athos is the least tactile person he knows. He wants to do something but his chest is suddenly inexplicably tight again and there's another coughing fit knocking on the door.

When it's over, he's doubled over again – and how old is this becoming? Athos is rubbing his back and dabbing at his face again with that stained scrap of fabric that Aramis really, really, doesn't want to look at. He thinks there are more words of comfort falling from his friend's lips but he can feel another bout rising up through his chest.

And he knows that he's not going to get through this next bout and come out of it on the right side of consciousness.


	16. Chapter 16

Instinct, Porthos realises, is a wonderful thing. He can't define it – abstract concepts were never his thing – but he knows he owes his life to it several times over. Now, frozen to the spot, wondering why his nerves are jangling with anticipation, he knows without a shadow of a doubt he owes his instincts one more life.

Over to his left, the shrubbery is moving in the light breeze. There's something not quite right about it though; Porthos knows the signs, the subtle ways the universe lets him know things are about to go south.

Silently, almost subconsciously, his hand slips to his pistol, comfort found in the cool solidity of its handle. He turns slowly and lets his eyes slide over the landscape until they come to rest on the offending shrubbery. He wonders why nobody has made a move yet as it's clear to him that there is, indeed, someone hiding behind the foliage. It's not the most effective hiding place, he muses as he raises his arm and steps forward confidently.

His finely honed senses tell him there's no threat from elsewhere but he's far too experienced to be lulled into a false sense of security. He risks a second step, hissing as his wound reminds him of its presence, and cocks his head to one side.

"I know you're in there," he taunts softly, nerves tingling with anticipation.

The shrub quivers and Porthos finds it difficult not to snort in amusement. Then, ever so slowly, the lower branches shake and from the midst of the bush the muzzle of a pistol appears. Porthos hears a faint click as the trigger is cocked and, without thinking, he throws himself to one side, landing heavily on his injured side as the musket ball whizzes past the spot that, just seconds ago, was occupied by his head.

The musketeer curses loudly and colourfully as he feels the fresh warmth of blood pooling at his waist. He rolls nimbly to his knees, rising as elegantly as he can, considering his current physical limitations. To his chagrin he realises his gun is lying harmlessly just out of reach. As he stretches out for it, a shadow falls over his head and he knows he won't get there in time.

So he does what he does best. He kicks out with his right leg, smiling grimly as he feels his shin come into contact with something soft but solid. The accompanying grunt and thud as a body hits the ground is a sound Porthos never tires of. He knows his reputation as a brawler but really he's a skilled hand-to-hand fighter, trained in the alleys and passageways of the Court by teachers who took no mercy and showed no pity for the weak or careless. He may look uncoordinated in a fist fight but those who know him best, and he can't help but think of his brothers who need him now, know how skilled he truly is.

But he doesn't have long to bask in his victory – it's short lived and by the time he's on his feet, his rival has also regained his stance. Porthos takes a second or two to weigh up his opponent, time he regards as vital for him to work out the best strategy to defeat him. Porthos nods, mock courtesy seeping from every pore as he bows to the man opposite him.

"A fair fight?" he suggests, gesturing to the sword at his waist. He waits while his opponent considers the proposal, finally nodding and drawing his weapon.

"Why not?" the man agrees. "Although I do believe you will still be at a disadvantage." He waves a hand towards Porthos' bleeding torso. "I would accept your surrender and think no less of you," he offers.

Porthos laughs and shakes his head. He likes the man's sense of humour and, under other circumstances, he thinks they would probably be friends.

"I'm grateful for your concern," he replies, "but I can assure you it's misplaced. I am as capable of defeating you now as at any other time."

"Then, monsieur, I can see no reason to delay," and he returns Porthos' bow before raising his sword.

The fight is short but brutal. Steel upon steel sparks and rings through the air as Porthos parries and lunges in perfect counterpoint to his opponent. Both men land hits that draw blood, Porthos to the upper arm, his rival to the thigh. Porthos' skill is well matched but his strength and determination out weigh the equality in skill as he slowly but surely drives back his opponent until, finally, the man stumbles backwards slightly. Porthos takes the opportunity to thrust forward and push him solidly with his hand, rendering the man helpless on his back, the tip of Porthos' sword resting menacingly at his throat.

"I could kill you here and now," he tells the man conversationally, eyeing him curiously. There's something about the man that makes him reluctant to carry out his final manoeuver.

His rival swallows and closes his eyes, clearly accepting his forthcoming death. Porthos frowns, puzzled to feel a connection to this man who is apparently willing to give his life for a cause Porthos knows nothing about as easily as the musketeer would die for his comrades.

"What's your name?" he asks, relinquishing the pressure on his blade slightly. But his opponent simply takes a deep breath and remains silent.

"Surely you would not do me the discourtesy of denying me the knowledge of whom I am about to kill?" Porthos presses on regardless, an irrational annoyance nudging at his conscience. He doesn't really understand where this reluctance to dispatch his opponent has come from, he usually doesn't care to make the acquaintance of those determined to kill him, but for some reason it matters this time.

The man beneath his blade opens his eyes and looks up at him before shaking his head slightly.

"My name is Michel Fabron and I die with honour."

"But what do you die for?" Porthos queries, genuine curiosity vying with the need to get to his fallen comrades on the other side of the crumbling wall.

Fabron glares up at the musketeer. "I die for loyalty and for justice."

"Who do you die for?"

"For a man who seeks justice."

Porthos sighs. He's tiring of this conversation that is clearly going to go round and round in circles but he can't bring himself to kill this man. He puts it down to instinct again and maybe, just maybe, he's doing the right thing as he twirls his sword gracefully and brings the hilt down hard on Fabron's head. He whispers an apology of sorts to the unconscious man and turns his sights back on the abandoned manor house that currently holds his friends.


	17. Chapter 17

Athos looks down at the man at his feet, his brow furrowed through worry and fear. Aramis' collapse was, whilst not entirely unexpected, untimely. Athos drops down to his knees and gently turns Aramis on to his side, allowing him to breathe easy, and gathers a pillow of hay beneath his fallen comrade's head.

Straightening up, he considers his next course of action. On the plus side, he muses, Aramis is breathing and in no immediate pain – his current state of unconsciousness has given him respite from that at least – and as far as Athos can tell, there is no immediate danger to either of them. He's worried about the blood Aramis is coughing up but he's experienced enough to realise there's nothing he can do about that other than make his friend comfortable.

The best thing he can do, he decides, the most useful, logical and sensible thing he can do, is to find some way to release Aramis from his bonds. The angle of his arms makes Athos wince in sympathy just to look at them and he knows Aramis has most likely been in this position for several days – several days which Athos regrets bitterly, blames himself for.

There's little light left in the barn but that doesn't deter the musketeer. He's been trained to make the best of every situation and he won't let a little dimness deter him. Barns, on the whole, he muses, are very similar – even disused, decrepit ones. In the days when he cared about such things, his barns were full of farming equipment and, to a lesser extent hunting equipment.

Aramis moans quietly and shifts on the ground. His movement becomes more agitated and Athos drops to his haunches next to the man's head. He rests his hand on top of Aramis' curls, biting his lip as he feels the grime and sweat. He gently strokes the wild locks into place, soothing Aramis back into a façade of sleep.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, letting his fingers rest on the nape of Aramis' neck. "This was never your fight. You should never have been here."

He sighs and pushes himself back to his feet, casting his eyes around their surroundings. In the far corner he can make out shadowy shapes that may or may not be useful to him. Pausing only to satisfy himself that they are still likely to be undisturbed, he strides to the back of the barn, all the time alert to any change in sound or atmosphere.

He reaches out a steady hand, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding when his fingers find something cold and solid. Curling his hand carefully around the object, he pulls it firmly towards him. It comes away from the wall easily and Athos allows himself a small smile as he recognises the feel of a metal blade – blunt and rusty but a blade nonetheless.

He takes a moment to examine it with his hand, running his palm tentatively along the edge of the blade. It's a scythe, he decides and wonders when it last saw use in the fields. He nods, content that the implement will suffice for his needs, and turns back to where he left Aramis.

And freezes.

Because Aramis is not there any more.

Athos swallows down the panic as his eyes scan the darkness, seeking out shadows that were not there before, looking for signs that somebody – anybody – has been and taken his friend. He's heard nothing, he tries to convince himself. He's seen nothing, so where could Aramis have gone?

Holding the scythe out in front of him as he would his sword, he sweeps his arm in a broad curve, wishing he had some sort of light. He squints into the darkness, hoping to find a clue, a sign, to show him where to find Aramis. He concentrates on his hearing, desperate to pick out the sound of his friend's breathing, coughing, anything. He's lost so much and he can't bear the thought of losing someone else from under his very nose.

And then he hears it – or at least he thinks he hears it – a low keening from behind an abandoned cart, wheels crumbled away with time. He feels a thousand times lighter as he steps in that direction, keeping his pace measured and steady.

"Aramis?" he murmurs, unwilling to scare his prey. "Aramis, it's just me."

The noise stops, only to be replaced by a harsh, wet cough which makes Athos wince in sympathy. He peers over the top of the cart and spies Aramis curled into as small a space as he can possibly manage, eyes staring up at Athos, wide and fearful. Athos wonders how the man managed to get into such a position without making a sound. Either he is more tired than he thought, or Aramis is better than he sometimes gives him credit for. Either way, he needs to reestablish contact with the man.

"Aramis," he begins, "you're safe here. There's no one else here, just me."

But Aramis seems to not understand. He shakes his head vigorously, and looks blankly at Athos.

"No," he stutters. "No, no, no…" and he seems to shrink even further back into the darkness. All recognition has gone from his face and it breaks Athos' heart to see the broken man before him. He knows what has happened – Aramis has sought sanctuary in the past but his past is no place for sanctuary to be found. Athos knows exactly where in the past his friend has retreated to and he had hoped, prayed even, that this would not happen.

Athos cautiously makes his way round the obstacle between them until he is within touching distance. He resists the urge to reach out to Aramis; he knows the action would be unwelcome at best, antagonistic at worst. He drops down to his haunches and spreads his hands out in front of him, palms open and upward.

"Aramis," he tries again, "I'm not going to hurt you. I want to help you."

But Aramis is too far gone, shuffling as best he can away from Athos, who recognises this is going to take some time. Athos settles down on the ground close enough to be a comfort but far away enough not to be a threat to the shell of a man he's proud to call his comrade. He crosses his legs, laying the scythe to one side, and lets Aramis study him intensely.

They sit in silence like this for a long time, long enough for the fading light to disappear completely, long enough for the night creatures to begin their nocturnal symphony, long enough for Aramis to begin to slide sideways in sleep, always jerking forward before finally succumbing to slumber.

"When did you last sleep?" Athos enquires eventually, softly. But the only response is silence. Athos wishes he could see the expression on Aramis face but the darkness is deep and all encompassing. The lack of response goes on for so long he wonders if Aramis is finally asleep. He stretches out his legs and searches for the scythe with long fingers.

"I can't remember." The words are so quiet, so broken, that Athos wonders if he's hearing things at first. "How long have I been here?"

"Long enough, my friend," Athos replies. "You can sleep now, though. I will let no harm come to you tonight."

He feels, rather than sees, Aramis nod and takes it as implicit permission to move closer. He grasps the scythe and, moving forward, places his hand on Aramis' arm. He reaches round and, keeping up a running commentary so as not to startle Aramis, begins to work through the ropes binding his fellow musketeer.

He feels the heat radiating off Aramis and tries not to worry about it as he finally severs the final strands of rope and Aramis' arms fall forward and the man gasps in pain as the circulation returns to him. Athos mutters apologies for the discomfort he can do nothing about and gently gathers Aramis to him, offering comfort and security as Aramis lets sleep take him for the first time in days.


	18. Chapter 18

d'Artagnan listens silently as Descarte talks in the darkness. He can’t help but take in the man’s words as he weaves a fantastical tale of love and betrayal, Athos at the center of it. He finds himself unwillingly fascinated by the idea of his friend falling in love, marrying, being happy. He wonders what happened to bring him to his current state of mind.

Descarte stops in his narration and looks at d'Artagnan for several long moments and the musketeer wonders if he is expected to ask a question. Much as he wants to know more about his normally reticent friend, he is unwilling to pander to his captor’s wishes quite so readily. 

The silence sits heavily in the air but d'Artagnan refuses to give in to it. He watches Descarte defiantly and gives himself a mental pat on the back when the older man simply sighs and stands up. 

“Do you know who the executioner was?” he asks, conversationally, looking down at d'Artagnan while simultaneously running his hand through his hair. “Do you even care that Athos could so easily put in motion the wheels to kill the woman he claimed to love?”

d'Artagnan remains silent, although he can’t deny to himself that those questions haven’t occurred to him. He shifts on the cold floor, a vain attempt to get more comfortable, flexing his fingers to alleviate the stiffness brought on by the night’s chill. 

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” he eventually replies, dryly, when it becomes apparent that Descarte is just as good at playing this game as he is. Somewhere in the back of his mind there’s a fight going on between the desire to sleep, for the man to leave him alone, and the need to keep him talking, knowing that if Descarte is here, then Aramis is safe. 

Descarte smiles a cold, hard smile. He thinks he’s won, d'Artagnan realises and renewed resolution grows in his belly. The young musketeer resigns himself to what he is convinced is going to be a barrage of lies told by a bitter, twisted man with unknown motives about a man he admires and, if truth be told, loves like his own father.

“The priest was my brother.” Descarte’s tone remains conversational but d'Artagnan can see his hands clenching at his side, the knuckles turning white. He looks up to face his captor and their eyes meet. d'Artagnan finds himself transfixed, despite the fear and dread settling in his heart. “I was the executioner.”

d'Artagnan can’t feel himself breathing. He’d known there was going to be a sting in the tale but this? He could never have imagined this in a million years. He knows now, more than ever, that Descarte has nothing to lose. 

Descarte seems to have forgotten the boy at his feet for now. His dagger has found its way back to his hands and he’s twirling it absently, watching how the light from the torch catches the blade as it spins through whole turn after whole turn.

“When Athos took his lover away from him, my brother couldn’t take it any more. He lost his mind and took his own life. You’d think that would be the end of though, wouldn’t you?” His voice has taken on a hard edge that cuts through d'Artagnan more than the threat of the knife in his hand. “But no, Athos wasn’t through with me. He summoned me to be the instrument of his wife’s death. I didn’t know it was her until I got there. The Comte de la Fère didn’t hang around to see his wickedness complete – too much of a coward for that. I recognised her, of course. Couldn’t let her die when she had meant so much to my brother.”

He stops and looks down at d'Artagnan whose confusion must, he feel sure, be showing in his face. The knife has stilled, as has Descarte, and the musketeer wants to fill the sudden, uneasy silence. But he has nothing to say to the man before him. He doesn’t want to believe anything he’s been told. He doesn’t understand why this man’s anger is directed at Athos and not his wife but he’s not going to give Descarte the satisfaction of giving fuel to the story. Maybe, he muses, maybe she wasn’t just the priest’s lover.

“Do you understand why now, boy? Do you understand why I cannot let this crime go unpunished?”

d'Artagnan’s mouth is dry as he realises the depths of madness the man before him has sunk to. He has limited experience of the revenge business but he is well aware that revenge left to fester over years will breed and multiply until the avenger loses sight of the righteous path. 

He tries to sympathise with Descarte’s grief, the loss of his own father still raw in his memory, but the picture he has painted of Athos is unacceptable. d'Artagnan is no shielded innocent who believes his idol can do wrong – far from it – but this is too much.

“You’re mad,” he finally manages, realising the minute he utters it, it was the wrong thing to say. 

Descarte’s cold smile is back, teeth bared like a wolf. “Really?” he laughs. “And who are you to make that judgment of me?” He drops down in front of d'Artagnan, so close the youngster can feel his breath on his face. “The only person judging round here, boy,” he hisses, “is me.”

He caresses d'Artagnan’s face with the flat of his blade and it’s all d'Artagnan can do not to flinch, not to show any signs of weakness, although his strength is pitiful at the moment. 

“He took everything I had away from me and he doesn’t even recognise me. So, you tell me, why shouldn’t I take everything from him, starting with his own priest?”


	19. Chapter 19

Aramis wakes slowly, awareness returning in a confusing combination of pain and relief. It takes him a while to work out where he is and when he does, panic sets in for a brief moment until he feels the reassuring presence of Athos by his side. He can’t help the sigh that escapes from his lips and he feels Athos shift slightly against him.

He blinks and allows his sight to adjust to the early morning light that is just beginning to illuminate the interior of the barn. Looking at Athos, Aramis realises the older musketeer must be exhausted. He hasn’t, he reflects, been the perfect patient but Athos is still here, by his side, offering support and strength even in his sleep.

His bones ache although the previous pounding in his head has died away to a niggling throb. His lungs, though, still feel as though they’re full of dust and mites and things he doesn’t even want to imagine. The very thought makes his throat tickle and he knows he can’t stop the imminent coughing fit.

He tries to stifle it, aware of Athos, but it’s useless and, as he hacks up what feels like his entire breathing system, Athos jerks awake instantly. There’s a hand on his back, warm and comforting and as the fit subsides he leans into it, despite the cessation of his coughing.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, sitting up as straight as he can. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Athos laughs softly. “I’m glad you did,” he replies, “although I would have preferred a nudge.” He pauses and Aramis can feel his eyes on him. “How are you feeling?”

It’s a good question, Aramis decides. He thinks for a moment before replying.

“I’ve been better,” he admits. He ponders the wisdom of hiding anything from his companion but he knows from experience the drawbacks to that course of action. “My head still hurts, but not as much; my ribs feel like a horse fell on them and I can’t breathe as well as I would like.”

He sees Athos frown. Part of him feels like a child again as Athos palms his forehead, obviously checking for signs of fever. He’d do the same if the positions were reversed. He closes his eyes and allows himself a moment of self indulgence, soaking up the warmth and love in the touch.

Athos grunts, apparently satisfied with what he finds, and lets his hand drop. Aramis is inexplicably sad at the loss of contact but tries to remind himself he is a fearless musketeer, not a four year old child with a cold.

“Descarte will return soon,” Athos mutters and the very name strikes fears into Aramis’ soul. He hadn’t really thought about that in the cocoon of safety Athos offered him but now he can’t avoid the issue any longer. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since his last encounter with the man – his mind is foggy – and now he’s wondering where the man has been, what he’s concocting for their next meeting.

Athos must sense what he’s thinking though as the older musketeer rises to his feet, somewhat stiffly Aramis muses, and moves quietly to the front of the barn.

“He isn’t a man to be trifled with,” he informs Aramis, pointlessly. “We need to think of a way to get away from here.” He stops and looks back at Aramis. “Can you hold a sword?” he asks.

Aramis considers the question. He flexes his right hand, suppressing a wince as his fingers respond a little too slowly for his liking. He’s sure he doesn’t have the dexterity he normally does but, at a push, he reckons he can manoeuver well enough to best Descarte’s men, if not the man himself. 

But the strength to hold a sword? That’s a different matter. Aramis prides himself on his ability to defend himself and his comrades and if the situation weren’t so dire he wouldn’t hesitate. But it’s not just his own life that depends on brutal honesty right now. It’s all very well saying yes, but if his strength gives out, who knows who’ll pay for his arrogance.

“I don’t know,” he answers, honestly, praying that Athos will understand his reticence. 

Athos nods slowly and turns back to the doorway of the barn. Aramis doesn’t know what he’s looking at, or for, but he’s beginning to feel uncomfortable, wary of what his friend is watching for. 

He lowers an arm, placing his hand on the ground, and wonders belatedly how long his arms have been free. He must remember to thank Athos for that. He can’t suppress the sharp intake of breath, or the subsequent hacking, as the pressure of trying to lift himself reveals itself in the most uncomfortable of ways, jarring up his arm to his back and neck. Athos is by his side instantly and Aramis can’t even remember seeing him move. His hand is on his back again, rubbing soothing circles as Aramis works his way through the coughing fit, finishing by wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

He frowns as he brings his hand to his eyes and in the dimness he can see a dark stain on his hand. He looks up at Athos, knowing it’s blood on his hand but wanting his friend to deny it. But Athos doesn’t. He simply takes Aramis’ hand and gently places it back on his lap.

“You’re bringing up blood,” he confirms. “I don’t think you’re dying but we do need to get you out of here and back to the garrison.”

Aramis nods stoically, knowing Athos is right – Athos is always right, he thinks – and looks up.

“What do we do?” he asks. “How do we get out of here?”

Athos shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know yet,” he admits. “We need to get d'Artagnan and find Porthos.”

Aramis blinks stupidly. He can’t believe he’s forgotten about their comrades. Hearing Athos mention Porthos’ name brings a warm glow to his belly. It’s proof his friend is still alive. He hadn’t wanted to ask, hadn’t wanted the possible confirmation his friend was dead. But d'Artagnan? He remembers the boy being dragged away but his mind was elsewhere, buried in a cocoon of denial and pain.

Aramis pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the discomfort in his limbs and head, all thoughts of self preservation gone in deference to finding his fellow musketeers.

“Where are they?” he demands in a voice stronger than he feels.

Athos studies him closely and Aramis wonders if he’s deciding whether he’s strong enough to handle the truth. The light has grown stronger and he realises their captors will be on the move soon. Their time is short and they’re still two men down.

“Where are they?” he repeats.


	20. Chapter 20

Porthos doesn’t know when the sun began to rise above the horizon but it must have been some time ago. He’s beyond tired but his need to find his companions has overridden his fatigue and the knowledge that somewhere behind him, Fabron is probably slowly coming to his senses has Porthos pushing on where he would normally allow himself some respite.

He’s found the decaying gateway to the manor house and with it, a suitable hiding place from where he can watch the movement of those within. He’s patched up his arm as best he can but the wound is scabbing over and he knows any sudden movements will reopen the cut. He can already feel the skin beneath tightening, pulling on his nerves and reminding him constantly that he may have just made a huge mistake by leaving Fabron alive. He thinks, hopes, he’s done the right thing but only time will tell now. He’d hate to have to finish the job now but knows he will, without hesitation, if need be.

The courtyard is slowly waking up. Men are moving around without any sense of purpose and Porthos is about to find a better vantage point when he spots the door of one of the old barns swing slowly open. He can’t see what’s inside he recognises the man who stalks out. It’s the man he last saw standing behind Aramis, a hand in his friend’s hair, hatred in his eyes and an unknown venom being directed at Athos. 

His stomach lurches as he studies the man’s face. He looks contented, satisfied, and Porthos worries about who he has just left behind in the barn. He squints through the early morning light and relaxes only slightly when he can’t spot any signs of a fight on the man. On the other hand, he muses, that could simply mean his friends weren’t in a position to retaliate.

He sits back and watches as the man gathers his soldiers to him. Porthos thinks it interesting that only a couple come running, the rest sauntering over to him in their own time. He wonders whether his comrades are all in the same barn, which would make his task a lot easier, but then catches himself in a chuckle. Since when did Musketeers get it easy? They’re probably spread out through the courtyard in separate buildings just to spite him.

A movement suddenly catches his eye and he furrows his brow. He’s not sure but he thinks he just worked out where at least one of his brothers is, and hope rises in his heart. He squints and could it possibly be Athos’ silhouette he can see? It’s a mere blink in time but he’s known these men so long, been with them through so much, that that’s all it takes. And if he’s found one, he knows he’ll find the others.

The men gathered in the central courtyard seem to have been given their orders as they are now milling around with no apparent sense of urgency. One or two are meandering over to the gateway where Porthos is concealed. He’s not worried about discovery, in fact he’d probably welcome it now. 

Gathering his wits about him, the soldier in him stirs, poking his reflexes into action and sharpening his reactions. He can see now that the men approaching his position are little more than boys, no more than d'Artagnan’s age. He wonders briefly how they ended up in this situation and resolves there and then to inflict as little pain on them as necessary. Although, he concedes, they may prove to deserve pain. They may be children in his eyes still but he knows only too well how dedicated d'Artagnan is to his cause and has no reason to believe these boys are any less determined and committed to whatever cause they are fighting for.

He shifts slightly, and lays his hand over the hilt of his sword. The boys, men, take up their guard duty either side of the gate but they are gossiping and laughing with each other, clearly not expecting trouble or company. Porthos tries to listen but their conversation is littered with inanities and tales of people he neither knows nor cares about. He hears nothing of his friends and after a while he decides his course of action must take him nearer to the barn where he saw movement.

Porthos knows the best thing to do would be to bide his time but he doesn’t think time is on their side. He saw how crushed Aramis was, he saw how d'Artagnan was taken down and he saw how deflated Athos was. None of them was at their best last he saw them and that was quite some time ago now.

In one swift move, he’s out from his hiding place, sword drawn. He brings the hilt down on the head of the guard nearest him, cutting off his story mid sentence. He could have laughed at the look on the face of the remaining boy and his mind stores it away for regaling his companions with at a later date. The point of his sword is pressed against his chest and Porthos simply smiles at his as he presses his finger against his lips.

“Not a word, okay?” he murmurs, content when the boy nods, looking more like a frightened rabbit than a hardened warrior.

“Who is that man?” Porthos continues, nodding sideways to the courtyard, trusting he’s made himself clear.

“His name is Descarte,” the boy replies softly, voice trembling in unison with his limbs. “He’s in charge but I don’t know why he’s doing this, I really don’t.” Panic is creeping into his words and Porthos almost feels sorry for him.

“Why are you here?” the musketeer queries, surprising himself with the question. There’s something about the boy that reminds him of too many children he’s encountered in his life – at the Court, in the alleys and back streets of Paris – and he wonders if he’s getting soft.

But the boy seems too terrified to get an answer out, just keeps shaking his head back and forth. 

“Where are the other musketeers?” Porthos asks when it becomes clear he’s not getting an answer.

“Descarte took one into the old barn,” the guard admits, “and the other two are in the stables.”

Porthos hates that he needs to ask the next question but he has to know what he’s dealing with as much as he needs to hear the answer.

“Are they alive?” 

The boy nods. “Last I heard they were,” he tells the soldier holding him at sword point. 

Porthos doesn’t want to consider the implications of ‘last I heard’. He leans forward so his mouth is almost grazing the boy’s ear, pushing a little harder on his sword to make a point. 

“I’m going to give you some advice now,” he hisses, a grim satisfaction coursing through him as he feels the fear radiating from the body before him. “You’re going to run now. Run far and run fast. Don’t stop till you’re out of Paris. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t listen to anyone and don’t stop. If I ever see you in Paris again I won’t be so forgiving. Understand?”

He steps back, raising his sword, and watches as the boy nods and turns on his heel, moving faster than Porthos would have given him credit for. Porthos is, albeit grudgingly, quite impressed as he turns his attention to the unconscious guard lying at his feet. Part of him thinks he should give this one the same chance but time is moving on and his brothers may not have the time for his compassion. He wonders what to do with the man in the absence of any rope or material to silence him and in a brief flash of inspiration he removes the man’s breeches, tearing them into strips to create makeshift bindings.

Smiling down at the trussed up man, Porthos congratulates himself on his somewhat ridiculous improvisation. Aramis, he thinks, would appreciate it and he determines to show his friend his handiwork on their return as he slips round the corner of the gateway into the courtyard.


	21. Chapter 21

“Where are they?” Aramis asks for a second time and Athos stills, debating whether his comrade is up to the truth or whether his state of mind is still at the stage where Athos needs to be lenient with information. Need to know has taken on a whole new meaning for him. He has no doubt that Aramis will do everything he is physically capable of to retrieve their two brothers but he’s worried about the man’s mental state. 

To all appearances Aramis has put his recent – current – ordeal to the back of his mind but Athos knows the man too well. He’s suffered more trauma than most and he’s dealt with it well, for the most part. But Athos is a soldier and a friend. He remembers the seemingly endless nights after Savoy when Aramis wouldn’t, or couldn’t, sleep; he remembers the broken shell of man his friend had become and he remembers how many nights he and Porthos spent listening to him, holding him through the tremors and nightmares or simply just being there.

The last thing Athos wants is a return to those times.

But they are soldiers and they are two missing. Athos does not have the luxury of mothering Aramis and he knows the man would not appreciate it in any case. He knows where d'Artagnan is, but not what condition and while Porthos being unaccounted for is a concern he has fewer worries for the older musketeer.

He turns to look at Aramis and, wishing for better circumstances and with more confidence than he feels, simply replies, “Here, somewhere.”

Aramis nods at him and Athos returns to his former position at the door of the barn. He watches as Descarte calls his men to him, watches as orders are given and their foe scatter around the courtyard in a remarkably complacent manner. He studies the allocation of duties, taking particular note of the two men who are slouching their way to the main gateway of the manor house.

He stiffens as he studies the gateway. He’s not sure but he thinks he sees movement in the early morning shadows and he’s not sure but he thinks he recognises the shadow. For the first time since he and d'Artagnan were captured, he feels hope. 

Turning, he finds Aramis standing just mere feet away from him. Athos files away the fact that he’s only swaying slightly and smiles at him. 

“I believe Porthos will be joining us very shortly,” he informs the injured man, happy to see Aramis’ face light up. Hope, he muses, is a fantastic resource and right now they need all the resources they can muster. 

He holds out a hand as Aramis stumbles forwards, clearly wanting to see for himself, but the gateway is still and silent again although Athos wonders where the guards are standing that they can’t been seen. Even Porthos isn’t that quick and he had his own injuries to contend with when Athos had last seen him.

“Where is he?” Aramis demands, and Athos pretends not to hear the desperation in his voice.

“He’s out there.” Athos gestures in the direction of the gate and stands to one side slightly to allow Aramis a better view. “You won’t see him unless he wants to be seen though.” He turns and takes hold of Aramis’ arm, gently leading him away from the doorway. “We don’t want to be seen either,” he reminds his friend. “We do want to be ready though.”

“Ready for what?” Aramis queries, stifling a cough with the back of his hand, quickly wiping it down the side of his leg. If he thought Athos hadn’t noticed, Athos muses wryly, he’s got another thing coming. Athos notices everything when it comes to the men under his command and Aramis is more than that to him.

He decides to ignore it for now and lowers Aramis down on a hay bale, making sure he’s as comfortable as can be.

“Ready for whatever Porthos has planned,” he replies. “Ready to find d'Artagnan and ready to get the hell out of here.”

Aramis nods as Athos settles himself down beside him. Athos tries to ignore the tremors running through his friend’s body as he leans unconsciously against the older musketeer. He wishes he had some water to drink and wonders again when Aramis was last given any form of sustenance.

Aramis shifts and stiffens as they both hear a noise from outside. Athos rests a hand on Aramis’ shoulder.

“Stay there,” he orders, moving quietly to his vantage point by the door. Part of him is surprised when Aramis makes no move to disobey but he doesn’t have time to consider the implications. Outside Descarte is standing in the center of the courtyard. If there were ever to be a good time to take him out, he thinks, this would be it. But there is no movement from the outskirts of the manor house and Athos briefly wonders if he’s got it wrong; maybe Porthos isn’t here.

The time for contemplation is over as Descarte clearly bellows his orders through the courtyard.

“Bring me the priest!”

Athos stiffens and looks at Aramis who has obviously heard the same command. In the dim morning light, Athos sees the blood drain from his face and their eyes meet. In Aramis’ eyes, Athos can see fear and panic battling with trust and faith. Athos shakes his head.

“I will not let him hurt you,” he promises.

“You can’t stop him,” Aramis mutters, and Athos tries to ignore the voice at the back of his head which is agreeing with the younger man. 

“I will do everything in my power to stop this, Aramis,” he reassures his friend but even to his own ears the promise rings hollow. Footsteps echo across the grounds and Aramis seems to shrink before his very eyes.

“Help me, Athos,” Aramis whispers. “Help me, please.”

Athos casts his eyes around the barn, desperately looking for some form of weapon. He spies the rusty scythe he used to free Aramis from his bonds and strides over to where it lies half covered in hay. He’s just wrapped his fingers around it when the remains of the barn doors swing open violently and the silhouette of two men fill the space.

“Boss is waiting for you,” a voice sneers and the larger shadow steps forward into the barn, kicking up dust as he moves. Aramis shuffles backwards as far as he can but the man is quicker and Athos grits his teeth as he hears the pained hiss Aramis clearly can’t keep to himself.

Athos shrinks back into the shadows, hefting the scythe in his hand, testing its weight, running his finger down the blade to ascertain the sharpness. It’s not, he thinks, the best weapon and any injury he inflicts with it is going to be messy and painful but frankly, he doesn’t care any more.

Aramis is being pulled unceremoniously to his feet and Athos can feel his pain as he struggles weakly to free himself. He’s good, though. He doesn’t call for Athos or give away the older musketeer’s position as they drag him back to the doors and the waiting Descarte.

Athos takes a deep breath – he cannot allow this to happen to his friend again. He has failed him once and he will die before he fails him one more time. He springs forward and swings the scythe in a wide sweep, plunging it into the shoulder of Aramis’ captor.

The man cries out in pain as he falls to the floor, vainly trying to push himself up on his good arm. Aramis neatly sidesteps with more grace than Athos thought he had left in him. Something in the younger soldier has clearly snapped as Athos watches him pull back his booted foot and lets it fly, crashing into the man’s head who, not unexpectedly, drops down silently to the cobbles.

It’s not, Athos realises belatedly, the most subtle of plans as the noise of the remarkably brief struggle is heard outside and the resulting commotion from the courtyard is enough to serve as a stark reminder to the musketeers of just how unprepared they are.


	22. Chapter 22

It’s been a long, sleepless night and d'Artagnan wants nothing more than to find his friends and be back at the barracks, preferably in a hot, deep bath. He’s still shackled to the ground though and the summer night has been surprising cold. It’s possible, he muses, the hard ground has held on to winter’s bitterness, saving it for some poor soul to soak it up through their bones. 

The musketeer aches but he refuses to give up hope. He can hear the courtyard outside coming to life as the daylight tries to seep through the cracks in the wooden walls. He can hear voices calling and laughing but none that he recognises. He wonders if Treville has realised their plan has gone not only sideways but upside down and back to front as well. He knows as soon as their failure to return is noted, the captain will move heaven and earth to find them but, seeing as they left no clue as to where they were going, he’s going to have a job finding them. Maybe, d'Artagnan thinks ruefully, they should have at least left a message for their leader.

But it’s too late to correct their errors now. Descarte has made it plain what his intentions toward Athos are and, by association, Aramis. d'Artagnan is helpless to be of any assistance to his comrades and the iron at his wrists is a cruel reminder of just how useless he is at the moment.

He tugs on the chains anyway, not caring for the noise the metalwork makes as it rattles against itself and the ground. It’s not the best idea, he thinks on reflection, as the sharp edge cuts into his skin, drawing enough blood to hurt but not enough to allow him to slip his chains. 

He slumps back against the wall, defeated, and closes his eyes. Maybe, he thinks, he should just conserve his energy so that when he is rescued – because he will be rescued, of that he has no doubt – he will be an asset, not a burden.

He thinks he must have dozed off because when he opens his eyes again, there is noise out in the courtyard that does not sound like the usual morning rituals of a camp awakening. He stiffens in preparation for action. Something is happening and he wishes he could see something other than the four walls of his prison. The commotion outside is growing louder and d'Artagnan needs to be ready.

He casts his eyes around his confines, looking for anything he could use as a weapon as his thoughts turn to Aramis and Athos. He has no doubt they are at the heart of this turn of events and he allows himself hope despite the fact there is nothing within reach to help him. He twists round to make sure he hasn’t missed anything of importance behind him when he hears the door opening.

Spinning back he squints at the silhouette in the doorway. His heart pounds – he knows that outline, would know it anywhere – and he can’t help the grin that forces its way onto his face.

“Porthos!” he exclaims, relief colouring every breath he takes. His muscles relax and he can’t help the slump against the wall, hands dropping to the ground with a resounding clank from the chains encircling his wrists.

His grin is more than matched by the man before him as Porthos raises a finger to his lips.

“Shh,” he whispers. “No point me sneaking in here if you’re going to give the game away, is there?” His words are tinged with humour and d'Artagnan succumbs to a huffed out laugh.

“How did you get here?” the younger man asks, knowing even as the question is spoken that it really doesn’t matter, it’s not the question he really wants to ask. 

Porthos is striding across the room and is by his side in a matter of seconds, dropping to a crouch and taking one arm firmly in his hands. He turns d'Artagnan’s hand over and gently pushes back the iron shackle. There is a sharp intake of breath that d'Artagnan knows isn’t his and then there is another hand in his hair, pushing it off his face, probing his scalp.

He shakes his head, frustrated by Porthos’ lack of response but understanding why the man is doing a cursory medical check.

“I’m fine, Porthos,” he complains. “I just need to get out of these,” and he raises his free hand, shaking the chains that still bind him to the ground.

“You’re a liar,” Porthos mutters, “but I’ll let you off this once.” He stops talking and rubs his thumb over d'Artagnan’s wrist where the iron has worn his skin through and left bloody streaks in its place. “I need to get these off you and then we have work to do.”

d'Artagnan lets his head fall back and holds both arms out in front of him as far as they will reach.

“And just how do you intend to free me?” he asks. “These are solid iron, best craftsmanship this side of Paris.” 

Porthos laughs and reaches inside his jacket. d'Artagnan may be a little the worse for wear but he doesn’t miss the brief wince that flies across his rescuer’s face. He files it away for future reference, chiding himself for not taking a better look at the older musketeer. He vows to rectify that as soon as he is reunited with his freedom.

From the depths of his clothing, and d'Artagnan doesn’t think Porthos’ shirt should really be that colour, Porthos produces a thin rod of metal which d'Artagnan doesn’t remember ever seeing before. He frowns and wonders if Porthos has suffered a blow to head because he can’t for the life of him see how such a tiny implement is going to help them.

But Porthos is grinning and wielding his tool with triumph. He looks directly at d'Artagnan and obviously sees the confusion there.

“Lock pick,” he states as though d'Artagnan should have been able to work that out for himself in a matter of seconds. “Picked up a lot of things growing up in the Court – some of them stayed with me,” he offers by way of explanation as he prods and probes at the lock on d'Artagnan’s chains.

d'Artagnan watches, fascinated as the lock clicks and opens, releasing the manacles from his arms which suddenly feel so much lighter. 

“I’d hate to be your enemy,” he tells the older musketeer as he gingerly swipes at the bloody mess his wrists have become. “Any more tricks up your sleeve?”  
“Lots,” Porthos smirks. “More than you need to know about. One day I’ll share some of them with you. Maybe.”

Porthos is, d'Artagnan muses, an enigma. His upbringing has left a legacy of skills more suited to the darker side of Paris but his heart is completely and truly that of a musketeer.

“Right now, though,” he continues, rising quickly to his feet and offering a hand to d'Artagnan, “we have business to conclude outside. I believe Athos and Aramis may need some assistance!”


	23. Chapter 23

Aramis smiles despite himself – he’s not a man easily given to violence but he will, and does, use it with frightening effectiveness when necessary. This probably wasn’t strictly necessary, he muses as he feels the reverberations of his action travel up his leg. In fact, he realises as his other leg trembles violently and sweat breaks out on his brow, it probably wasn’t even remotely sensible. He’s a soldier, he reminds himself, which means he’s been trained to make snap decisions that could mean the difference between life and death for both himself and his comrades. This decision has weakened him further and put Athos at risk.

He looks at the man lying unconscious at his feet and takes as deep a breath as he can. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, glancing up at Athos. “I didn’t really think that one through.”

The noise outside has crescendoed to a peak and Aramis looks worriedly at the door. Athos has moved away from him, he notices and in his muddled state of mind he feels bereft and guilty and convinces himself that his rash actions have driven his friend away from him. His companion is not even looking at him and Aramis drops his head, resting his chin on his chest.

While he studies the floor in far more detail than is necessary he listens to the sounds outside. Descarte’s men are clearly moving in for the kill and Aramis is finding it hard to care. d'Artagnan is probably dead by now, Porthos has probably been captured – he is, after all, only one man – and he’s successfully driven Athos away with his reckless and stupid actions.

So the hand on his shoulder, the one bringing him back to the here and now, is a surprise. He’s really losing his edge, he thinks, if Athos can move so silently and gracefully that he doesn’t notice him in this confined space. 

“I think you were perfectly justified,” the older musketeer says, and Aramis can feel the sincerity in his voice. His guilt lifts a little and he nods.

“Thank you,” he replies, wondering if Athos understands how he is feeling or whether he just needs Aramis to get through the next few minutes. Because that is all it’s going to take. 

“I’d say we need a plan,” Athos continues, “but I don’t think there’s time for such niceties. d'Artagnan needs us and we don’t have time to waste.”

d'Artagnan needs us. The words bounce round Aramis’ head, taunting him with the lack of Porthos. The musketeer knows he needs to focus on their brother who truly needs them but he can’t forget Porthos. He knows his friend is more than capable of looking after himself but he won’t rest easy until he’s seen the man for himself. 

There’s movement outside and Aramis sways somewhat on his feet. He doesn’t think Athos has noticed but then again when has Athos ever not noticed something like this? His vision blurs slightly round the edges and he wonders how long he’s going to actually be of any use to his friends. 

Athos, it would appear, can also read minds. Aramis feels a hand under his chin, raising his head till he is looking directly at his leader. Athos’ eyes are clear and focused and Aramis wishes he were anywhere near as coherent. 

“Can you do this?” Athos asks, quietly and clearly ready to accept whatever answer Aramis gives. Part of the injured musketeer is warmed by trust given over to him so freely.

He considers the question briefly; the movement outside is closing in on them and he cannot let his friends – his brothers – down any more. He takes stock of his aches and pains. His ribs still hurt and he’s sure at least a couple are broken; when he coughs, it’s wet and warm and nothing how it should be; his legs are as wobbly as a newborn deer and his head is swimming.

But there’s more than his own physical state to consider. Athos and d'Artagnan need him and he will not let them down. He’s just proved the power of adrenaline and although it’s not an exact science, he believes he can call on it again if necessary.

He looks at Athos and their eyes lock. He can’t read the expression he sees there but he gives a slight nod anyway. He hopes Athos can’t see the uncertainty.

Whether the older musketeer sees his answer for what it is, or what he hopes it is, is irrelevant as Athos straightens and turns to the doorway where the sound of fighting is intensifying.

“I hope so,” he throws over his shoulder as he moves away from Aramis, “as we are about to find out.”

Just as his words are out, the entrance is filled with bodies, circling and entwined with each other, a macabre dance playing out before them. Arms and legs are spiking out of a cloud of bodies and Aramis strains to keep track of any one part of the spectacle. He can hear incoherent voices shouting and somewhere out in the yard he thinks he hears someone screaming. 

He feels a bubble of panic rising up in his chest and he struggles to quash it before it leads to a full blown attack of nerves. He’s a musketeer, he reminds himself. There will be time later to fall apart but right now his mind and heart are needed elsewhere and he will fight to the death if necessary.

Athos, he realises with a start, has disappeared into the scrum and he knows this is it – this is where he proves to himself and his brothers that he is truly worthy of the title of musketeer. One for all, one for all, one for all he chants in his head, over and over again as his feet move of their own volition. The words soothe his mind and then he’s acting on instinct, all his pain pushed away where it can’t hinder him.

He throws himself into the melee, seeking a familiar face in the throng which seems to be making its way back into the courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye he spot Athos throwing a vicious lefthander which connects with satisfying resonance against the face of a man Aramis recognises vaguely but has had little to do with.

Before he can enjoy the minor success though his right arm is yanked brutally to the side and he finds himself spinning round. He doesn’t remember raising his elbow but he must have done as the sharp bend in his arm meets the soft resistance of his opponent’s cheek. The musketeer is pleasantly surprised when the man releases his hold and staggers backwards, grunting something Aramis thinks is meant to be comprehensible but in his own muddled state he really doesn’t think it’s worth trying to decipher the words.

Encouraged by his success and the almost telepathic knowledge that Athos is gaining the upper hand, Aramis draws back his arm, hand folding in to an iron fist and prepares to launch it at his assailant.

“Aramis!” A voice breaks through and he hesitates. It’s not a long hesitation but it’s long enough for the man before him to grab his fist, totally enclosing it in his own, dark hand, and bring it down till their joined hands rest harmlessly between them.

“Aramis,” he repeats, more softly this time. “It’s me. Just me.”

Aramis gazes stupidly at the hand covering his own. He knows those fingers almost as well as his own. He’s watched them at work and at rest. He’s been on the end of their ire and their gentleness. He knows they would never intentionally hurt him and he can’t believe he was about to inflict as much damage on their owner as he could.

He raises his head and finds himself looking into dark eyes that are watching him intently. He smiles and his heart lifts despite the circumstances.

“Porthos,” he whispers, needing acknowledgement before allowing himself to truly believe that the man he considers his best friend, his brother, is standing before him.

Porthos’ face breaks into a grin. “What?” he teases. “You thought I wouldn’t come for you?”

“No.” Aramis shakes his head. “Never.”

There’s so much more he wants to say to Porthos but this is not the moment and he recognises the look in Porthos eye a fraction before the bigger man’s fist comes flying towards him. He ducks instinctively and feels the blow sails past his ear, catching his hair, and connects solidly with the man behind him.

“Time to go, gentlemen,” Athos shouts from his stance at the doorway. “Porthos, where is d'Artagnan?”

“He’s out here,” an all too familiar voice calls back. “With me.”

The three musketeers freeze. Aramis sees the slump in Porthos’ shoulders as he turns to face Athos. He can see Athos stiffen as he looks out to the courtyard and he knows without being told that their youngest has found Descarte and come of worst.


	24. Chapter 24

The chill that runs down Athos’ spine has nothing to do with the early summer air but everything to do with the smile in the voice from outside. His muscles contract involuntarily and it’s all he can do to force himself to relax. Behind him he can feel Porthos and Aramis moving towards where he stands by the doorway. He doesn’t know what sight awaits them but his need to protect Aramis still is overwhelming. He holds his arm up, hand raised to stop them in their progress. He’s ridiculously grateful when Porthos takes hold of Aramis’ arm and halts him. Athos wonders how much support Aramis is taking from his friend, both physical and emotional.

He briefly drops his head, steeling himself for whatever Descarte has in store for them beyond the relative safety of the stables, before shaking himself down, pulling on his mantle of command and stepping steadily and boldly out into the courtyard.

The grin on Descarte’s face makes Athos want to strangle him on the spot, but he doesn’t. The man is sitting astride d'Artagnan’s thighs, pinning the musketeer, face down, on the ground. Athos can’t see the boy’s face but he can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t at least tried to twist and throw his assailant off. Hell, he’s taught the Gascon that move himself and he’s sure Porthos has practised it with him at least a dozen times in order for d'Artagnan to perfect the manoeuver. 

And then a glint of sunshine sparkling off a blade gives him his answer. The dagger Descarte has pressing into the small of d'Artagnan’s back looks sharp and, moving forward another step, Athos can see that it’s already sliced through the outer layer of d'Artagnan’s clothing.

He throws his arms out to the side, hands open, palms uppermost. 

“This has gone far enough,” he says, surprised at the steadiness in his voice. “I’m not armed, we will not attack. Let the boy go.”

Descarte raises an eyebrow and his grin grows wider as he trails the knife in a swirling pattern over d'Artagnan’s back. “You won’t attack?” he laughs as he lets the blade come to rest at the base of his captive’s neck. 

“No,” Athos affirms. “You have my word.”

Descarte shifts his weight and Athos winces inwardly as he watches d'Artagnan flinch. He wasn’t sure if the younger musketeer was unconscious but the wriggle he’s just witnessed suggests that there is some level of awareness in the boy.

“Your word means nothing to me. This has gone beyond just you and me, Athos,” Descarte begins. “If it had been just you and me this would have been settled months ago. But that would have been too easy for you. You need to suffer like I have suffered. So this is what it has come to. You and your friends – you all have to pay for your deeds.” 

He looks away from Athos, down to where his knife rests. Athos follow his eyes and watches with suppressed fear as the blade flicks d'Artagnan’s hair away from his collar, leaving the skin of his neck exposed. Athos feels Aramis and Porthos standing behind him and knows they are just waiting for his signal to attack. But the threat to d'Artagnan is too great to take risks. Aramis is barely standing and Porthos is beginning to flag. 

“Then you truly are a coward,” Athos states, wondering if his calculated risk will pay off. Descarte is holding the winning card right now but if he’s the man Athos remembers, the insult to his bravery should deflect his attention from d'Artagnan and back to himself. 

“Athos!” Aramis hisses, and Athos wants nothing more than to reassure his injured comrade that he knows what he’s doing. Except he doesn’t, not really. He sometimes wonders how often people think he has a plan when actually he has simply developed his skills at reading a situation in a heartbeat.

Descarte shakes his head, almost ruefully, and presses down on the knife. Athos hears d'Artagnan’s sharp intake of breath and for one second he wonders if he’s made a terrible mistake, underestimated Descarte’s ego and arrogance. He watches as a tiny bead of bright red blood wells up beneath the tip of the blade. But he stands his ground.

“You are a coward who uses weaklings to do your bidding. You couldn’t face me one to one because you know you will lose so you gather an army of children and old men, none of whom are a match for the King’s Musketeers. You threaten those around me because your pride has lead you down this path and now you don’t know how to stop. There are other ways to settle this.”

Descarte looks up at Athos and the musketeer thinks he sees hesitation and uncertainty creeping into his eyes. Maybe, he thinks, just maybe he’s getting through to the man. He certainly hopes so because d'Artagnan really doesn’t look comfortable and he while he may be able to appeal to Descarte’s sense of revenge, he wants d'Artagnan as far away from him as possible while the decision is made.

“Other ways?” Descarte snorts, derision coating his words. “What other ways would you suggest, Athos? A trial? In Paris? You’re a Musketeer. Who would believe anything I have to say? What sort of justice would I get there? This cannot be ended until you have suffered as I have. I will have my revenge and you will watch me tear your family apart before you die at my hands.”

“I will give myself to you,” Athos calmly states. “My friends need medical attention. If your aim was to hurt me by hurting them then you have more than succeeded. Their pain is mine and you have already hurt me more than you can know.” 

It’s killing Athos to make this admission to Descarte. He knows his comrades already know this, he knows Aramis and Porthos have taken injuries for him and they would do so again in a heartbeat and that he would, and has, fight to the death for them. d'Artagnan, he thinks, is beginning to realise his place is just as important and that the three older soldiers would give their all for him. He wonders sometimes if the younger man understands how much he has come to mean to him, to them all.

He watches as Descarte studies him, refusing to be the one to break eye contact. He’s not sure but he thinks he can see the man starting to relax slightly. The pressure on the dagger lets up and d'Artagnan takes a breath, exhaling shakily. Descarte obviously comes to a decision and as Athos feels Aramis and Porthos take another step so they are at his side, no longer behind him, the man removes the knife and fists his free hand in d'Artagnan’s jacket. In one swift move, one for which Athos has a grudging admiration, he rises to his feet, pulling the young musketeer up to his knees but no further.

“Maybe I misjudged you,” Descarte comments, tilting his head to one side, studying the three musketeers before him, narrowing his eyes. 

“Maybe you did,” Athos agrees. He’s not fooled by Descarte’s sudden change of heart though. No man seeks revenge for so long only to be turned by a few choice words from his object of hatred.

“Tell me,” the man continues, “how did you manage to defeat my men? There were three of you, two clearly injured and however good you are, Athos, you cannot be that accomplished.”

“Your men were disorganised and ill trained. They lacked discipline and skill, two qualities any soldier must possess. Those that aren’t dead have surrendered or fled. So it would seem they also lack loyalty.”

Descarte nods and bites his lip thoughtfully. “What is it you propose then?” He gives d'Artagnan a shake and Athos has to hold himself back. The Gascon is a little more bruised than the last time he saw him and the boy looks weary and old beyond his years but Athos decides he can still be relied on, probably more so than Aramis or Porthos right now. 

“It seems to me,” Descarte continues, “that I still hold the winning card.”

“You hurt him and I’ll kill you slowly and painfully,” Porthos blurts out, clearly no longer content to stand by and watch.

“And I will say no prayers for you,” Aramis joins in.

Athos is heartened by their contribution and their words are clearly bolstering the young man on his knees. He can see d'Artagnan tensing, ready to move the second he gives him a signal. It warms his heart that the boy trusts him implicitly but Descarte is too unstable for him to risk a sudden movement from that position. Athos shakes his head, a movement so subtle it would be missed by anyone not accustomed to his ways.

d'Artagnan though recognises it and, without looking away from Athos, relaxes again, and Athos hopes he’s conserving his energy for when it’s needed.

Descarte sighs and releases his hold on d'Artagnan’s jacket. The boy doesn’t move though and Athos feels a stab of pride. His lessons on strategy have clearly not been a waste of time after all. A man on his knees before a man with a knife in his hand and madness in his head is always at a disadvantage.

“What do you propose, then?” Descarte asks and it seems to Athos the world falls silent as they all wait for his answer.


	25. Chapter 25

Guilt, recrimination, humiliation and not a little embarrassment vie for top position within d'Artagnan's head as he kneels on the hard, dusty ground, a parody of how they found Aramis in the first place. He can't believe he's been so stupid as to allow himself to be captured by Descarte and jeopardise the whole operation. They set out to rescue their sniper and have ended up herded into a dusty courtyard, battered, bruised, and he's not sure what ails Porthos but he doesn't think it's good, at Descarte's mercy because he read the situation wrong.

He looks up at Athos and a wave of misery sweeps through him. His mentor's face is blank. They're all waiting for his answer, his solution to their current predicament but as far as d'Artagnan can see, there's nothing forthcoming. Athos is glaring at their nemesis and d'Artagnan wills him to look at him instead, just a glance to let him know he does not share the blame d'Artagnan has placed upon himself. Maybe, he thinks, if Athos looks at him, he will know what to do.  
The trail of blood down the back of his neck is becoming an irritation and he can't help shrugging his shoulders to ease the sensation. He feels Descarte move even nearer to him, feels the heat of the man radiating over his back and shoulders and he wonders if that slight movement was a mistake.

But he doesn't have to think about it for long as Athos takes a deep breath and d'Artagnan thinks he's addressing Descarte but in reality it could be any and all of them.

"You and I can settle this like gentlemen," he rumbles.

"Gentlemen?" Descarte replies and d'Artagnan can feel the words vibrate round the courtyard. It seems to him that he's seriously considering what Athos is saying. "Are you proposing a duel?"

Duelling is illegal – d'Artagnan knows that but quite honestly, at this point it doesn't seem the worst thing any of them would ever do. The Gascon glances at Aramis and Porthos, standing taut and poised behind their leader. Aramis looks as though he's standing through sheer will power and nothing else whilst Porthos is the very picture of resentful constraint. d'Artagnan wonders how much effort it's taking Porthos to not launch himself forward and snap Descarte's neck this very instance.

His attention is drawn back to Athos as the older man shifts his balance from one foot to the other. He watches as the older musketeer nods once, decisive and determined.

"I am," he replies and finally breaks eye contact with Descarte. He turns his attention instead to d'Artagnan. "I believe this is the best way."

d'Artagnan isn't sure who that last statement was aimed at. Descarte seems to be waging an internal argument with himself. If he were in Descarte's position, d'Artagnan would run for the hills right now but then their opponent has shown himself to be remarkably lacking in common sense, either through some misguided desire for revenge or simply through an abundance of self belief. d'Artagnan isn't sure which.

"What are your terms?" Descarte asks.

"Simple," Athos replies. "If you win, and I sincerely doubt that will happen, I will surrender to your will but you guarantee to let my comrades leave. They, in their turn," and here Athos turns briefly to Porthos and Aramis, no doubt directing a silent command that d'Artagnan can't see, "will return to Paris and you will never hear from them again."

"And if you win?" Descarte continues.

"Then you return to Paris with us and face the courts."

"Hmm," Descarte drops a hand on top of d'Artagnan's head and the younger man barely refrains from a start of surprise. He represses a shudder as the hand gently twists in his hair, tangling fingers around strands desperately in need of a wash. "It seems to me that your terms, while acceptable to you, leave me wanting still. If I accept, your comrades are free to go whatever the outcome. That doesn't strike me as fair."

He steps round to the side of the musketeer at his feet and d'Artagnan can't help but twist his head as the grip on him refuses to relent. He finds himself looking to the side of the courtyard, no longer able to see his brothers. He hears shuffling of feet and suspects Porthos and Aramis are moving to their natural positions by Athos' side.

Descarte hasn't finished though and as d'Artagnan concentrates on his words he fixes his gaze on the abandoned gateway to the old manor house.

"I offer a counter proposal," he states.

There is a pause and d'Artagnan wishes he could see the silent exchange he just knows is taking place between the three musketeers.

"Go on." Athos sounds as though he might seriously accept a counter offer and anyone other than those closest to him would easily believe his sincerity. d'Artagnan knows better though. Athos will not willing accept anything that brings any of them into danger.

"I don't believe that your men will return never to be seen again," Descarte starts and d'Artagnan has to admit the man has seen straight through that first lie. Athos may have meant it, given that assurance in good faith, but Aramis and Porthos would be no more content to let the matter rest than d'Artagnan would himself.

"Therefore, I propose this. When I win," and d'Artagnan is amazed by the man's arrogance, "two may return to Paris. I will keep this one," and he jiggles d'Artagnan's head a little for emphasis, "as a guarantee of my continued liberty and freedom from your poison. I give you my word as a gentleman that he will keep his life and that I will seek no more vengeance against the other two. However," and here Descarte tightens his grip on d'Artagnan's hair, "if I ever hear of any scheme or campaign against me, this one will suffer beyond anything you can imagine."

The silence that follows is thick and impenetrable. d'Artagnan can almost hear Athos thinking. He knows what he would do if their roles were reversed but he also knows how intense Athos' desire to protect all of his brothers is. He wonders if Athos is aware of the bloodstain on Porthos' shirt and the way in which he winces when he thinks nobody is looking. He wishes he could see what was going on but, despite Descarte's increasingly unsteady hold on him, he can only see the periphery of the courtyard and the open countryside beyond the open gateway.

Which is when he catches a glimpse of movement. Very slight, hardly there, and he wonders if anyone else has seen it. He can't be sure, but he thinks he's seen the glint of a sword, maybe a pistol catching the sunlight. d'Artagnan frowns, wondering who could possibly be out there. He squints, drawing his eyebrows down, trying to sharpen his view of whatever – whoever – is out there.

"I accept your proposal, with one amendment," Athos says, breaking d'Artagnan's concentration. He can hear the reluctance in his mentor's voice but in his heart, he feels only relief. Athos will win, of that he has no doubt, but if things don't go well, he will give his life before admitting Descarte has won.

"I don't believe there are any amendments to be made," their adversary is countering.

"You're wrong. There is always room for amendments." Athos' voice is hard now, determined, and d'Artagnan wonders if Aramis and Porthos are taking as much strength from it as he is. "I will agree to your terms but these two return to Paris now. d'Artagnan and I will remain here until the matter in hand is resolved, one way or another."

d'Artagnan hears Aramis and Porthos begin to protest and he doesn't blame them. If their positions were different and he was about to be sent away, he would protest for all his worth too.

Descarte laughs and releases d'Artagnan with a hard shove. As he throws his hands out in front of him to break the fall, the young Gascon throws a look up at his comrades. It's as he thought. Athos has an arm out to stop the advance both Aramis and Porthos have attempted to make and Descarte has stepped forward, stopping only inches from Athos.

"Do you really think I'm that stupid?" he demands of the musketeer. "Do you really think I don't know they'll make for the first town and send down an army upon us?"

"You have my word they will not do that," Athos reassures the man and d'Artagnan finds himself almost believing him. It only takes one look at Porthos to know that's exactly what he was planning on doing and wherever Porthos goes, Aramis will follow.

"Your word means nothing to me," Descarte spits.

"Then take mine," Aramis whispers, voice so quiet d'Artagnan wonders if he's hearing things. "We will not bring an army upon you." He huffs out a laugh and leans on Porthos. "Look at us. We can hardly stand let alone fight."

There is, d'Artagnan muses, a great deal of truth in what Aramis says. Both men have suffered and the stain on Porthos' shirt seems to him to be growing again. No doubt the fight has ripped open whatever wound he is hiding beneath his clothing. And Aramis? d'Artagnan prefers not to think about what ails him.  
But he also knows that neither musketeer would willing walk away and leave Athos and himself to the mercies of the madman before them. Descarte, however, has not yet worked out Aramis' character – his loyalty and devotion to his brothers.

"Very well," Descarte eventually concedes, waving a careless hand toward the gateway. "Go now and never return." He pulls his pistol and points it directly at d'Artagnan. "Remember your actions will have consequences."

Aramis nods and Porthos grunts, wrapping an arm around Aramis' waist before propelling him slowly towards the gateway, pausing to glance at Athos before turning his gaze to d'Artagnan. The younger man nods at him, hoping to offer reassurance as to the course of action they are now committed to. He wants to warn them of the movement he saw but knows any such warning would be seen. Besides, Porthos and Aramis have a lifetime of experience between them.

"You be alright?" Porthos mutters and d'Artagnan can't help the smile creep on to his face.

"We'll be fine," he says. "Just watch yourselves out there."

He settles back on his haunches, gun still pointing at him, and watches as Porthos and Aramis shuffle out of the courtyard and disappear out of view behind the wall.


	26. Chapter 26

Aramis leans heavily on Porthos as they slowly put the courtyard behind them. His own words are ringing in his ears: we will not bring an army upon you. He stifles a laugh at the innocence of those words, the misguided reassurance he released onto Descarte’s subconscious. It was almost too easy to assure the fool that he would be safe. Regardless of the outcome of the duel between Athos and their adversary, Descarte will not be alive by nightfall. Of that, Aramis has no doubt. 

He feels Porthos tighten his hold around his waist and realises he’s still laughing. No wonder his dearest friend looks worried. But now he’s started, he doesn’t seem able to stop and he lifts a hand to Porthos’ chest, meaning to take strength and comfort from the contact that he has missed so much.

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers and Aramis stops laughing. His companion’s voice is wrong. Aramis blinks and shakes his head as much as he dares. The pair come to a standstill and Aramis raises his head, meeting Porthos’ eye. He sees pain in the face he knows and loves and ever so slowly he takes his hand away from its resting place.

“Porthos,” he starts, dropping his eyes to his hand, “when were you going to tell me?”

The question hangs in the air for an uncomfortably long period of time. Aramis stares at his hand, stained with blood that he knows isn’t his. He’s spilled enough over the last few days to know exactly where to expect it and Porthos’ chest isn’t on his list.

“It’s not too bad,” Porthos eventually replies and gently takes hold of Aramis’ wrist, pulling his hand out of his line of vision. “You got your own problems to worry about,” and he tilts the marksman’s face up so he can study it closely.

Aramis shakes his head free of his hold, instantly regretting it when the world spins, trees becoming grass, grass becoming rocks and rocks becoming clouds. He can’t stop the accompanying stumble and Porthos’ sudden firm grip on his biceps is the only thing holding him upright.

He allows himself to be lowered to the ground, relishing the solidity of both the earth beneath him and the hands holding him. His head feels as though it’s detaching from the rest of his body and his eyelids slip closed of their own volition. In the ensuing darkness he can hear every beat of his heart thumping steadily and for that he gives thanks – it means he still has life in him.

Porthos’ hand on his face brings him back to reality. He opens his eyes and offers up a small, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry,” he starts.

“Aramis,” Porthos interrupts, holding a hand up to his face. “How long have you been coughing up blood?”

Aramis frowns. He’s sure he’s had this conversation already. Why can’t Porthos remember that? He thinks back to when he first noticed, remembers being told he wasn’t dying, remembers the gentleness with which his pain and fears were dealt. Why can’t Porthos remember any of that?

“Aramis…Aramis.”

“A while,” Aramis tells his friend, “but you already know that.”

Porthos shakes his head and Aramis feels a leaden ball of foreboding settle in his stomach.

“Yes,” he insists, “you do. You told me I wasn’t dying. You told me I was going to be alright. You told me…”

“Stop,” Porthos commands, his voice unreasonably harsh and loud, and Aramis realises he’s on the verge of a panic attack. “Just…stop,” Porthos repeats, words tinged with a sadness Aramis doesn’t want to hear. So he does. He stops and falls still.

They sit in silence for some time. Aramis doesn’t know how long they sit there – he lost count of time at least three days ago, maybe more. He looks at the ground, wondering why Porthos is so upset with him. Every so often he casts a glance at his friend, tries to catch his eye, but Porthos is focused on something in the distance and Aramis simply hasn’t got it in him anymore to turn and look behind him. He’s dimly aware they should be doing something about Athos and d'Artagnan but the ground is suddenly so inviting, despite the sharp stones digging into his backside and hands where they lie at his side.

Eventually he lets his eyes drift closed just as Porthos sighs deeply.

“You didn’t have that conversation with me,” the musketeer tells him. “You must have been talking to Athos. He was the one looking after you.” He hesitates. “I wasn’t there for you, Aramis. I wasn’t there and I should have been. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Aramis mutters, grimacing at the energy even those few words have taken from him. “But we can be there for d'Artagnan and Athos. We have to help them.”

Porthos snorts. “Doubt Athos needs much help. He’s the only one of us who’s not bleeding from somewhere.”

The words filter through the fog of Aramis’ mind. What does Porthos mean the only one of us? His mind flies back to his blood stained hand – the hand that had rested on Porthos’ chest. 

“Porthos? Where are you hurt?” he asks, the medic in him taking over effortlessly. Maybe, he muses, in some twisted way this is what he needs, to tend to the wounded, forget about his own hurt and failings.

“Bullet grazed my ribs,” the other man responds. “It stopped bleeding but I think I must have pulled it open again. It’s fine now though, Aramis, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse.”

“You cleaned it?”

Porthos laughs. “What with?”

“Did you at least bind it?” 

Porthos simply raises an eyebrow at his friend and Aramis nods but makes a note to check Porthos out properly as soon as he can. He opens his mouth to make his intentions clear but as he does so, Porthos raises his hand, silently demanding silence, eyes fixed at something in the distance.

“Shh,” he whispers, as though Aramis needs any further instruction. Aramis and Porthos have been together for so long such vocalisations are not required; they read each other like books. So Aramis merely watches his friend, wondering what he has seen that has caused this reaction from his normally steadfast companion.  
Porthos slowly rises to his feet and holds a hand out to Aramis, pulling him upright. “We need to go,” he tells him, not releasing his hold until Aramis pulls his arm slightly, indicating his returning strength and ability to stand on his own two feet.

He turns slowly, ignoring the bubbling rising up in his chest, the bubbling he thought was long gone but seems to be making a reappearance just in time to negate his words of reassurance to Porthos. 

By the time he has made a half turn to face whatever Porthos was so focused on, his friend has stepped forward so they are side by side. 

And now Aramis can make out a figure in the near distance – nearer than he would prefer if he were honest. The figure is clearly a man and as Aramis squints to make out details, he tries to decide if this is going to turn out well for them or not. As the man moves forward, Aramis can make out the shape of a pistol at the end of an outstretched arm and decides this may not be the relief that he and Porthos so badly need right now.


	27. Chapter 27

Athos, d'Artagnan and Descarte watch as the remaining two musketeers stumble through the gates of the courtyard; Athos isn’t quite sure who is supporting who the most but he hopes Porthos is strong enough for both of them.

As the dust settles in their wake, Athos turns back to Descarte who still has his pistol trained steadily on d'Artagnan. The younger musketeer looks unhappy but Athos can hardly blame him for that – he’s not too happy himself. For the thousandth time he wonders why he was so willing to admit the Gascon to their little troupe. In his heart he knows the answer but in his head he’s cursing himself yet again for leading the boy into situations someone his age should know about only through the tavern gossip. 

Descarte smiles and slowly, ever so slowly, lets his gun drop until it’s resting at his side but Athos isn’t fooled. The man’s fingers are tense around the trigger and Athos knows it would only take one wrong move, one ill advised comment to set the man off. 

He takes the opportunity to really study the man. Descarte is watching d'Artagnan and there’s something in his eyes that Athos doesn’t like. He can’t quite put his finger on it but he thinks the man may have finally lost any semblance of reason he once had. The lines around his eyes are more pronounced and Athos puts it down to tiredness. Tiredness which could turn out to be to the musketeers’ advantage. Or not.

Descarte breaks the uneasy silence.

“You do realise,” he begins, stepping nearer d'Artagnan, “that I can’t possibly leave you loose?” He casts a meaningful stare at Athos who recognises it instantly for what it is. I would kill him as easily as look at him if either of you just give me a reason. 

Athos shrugs, seemingly indifferent, and glances briefly at the musketeer on his knees. 

“Do what you must,” he says, hoping that d'Artagnan will forgive the callousness in his voice. “Just get on with it. I’m tired of playing your games.”

Descarte smiles smugly and grasps d'Artagnan’s upper arm. Athos forces himself not to react to the pained gasp that escapes from the boy’s lips. Subconsciously he wonders just how hurt he is. He’s learnt quickly that d'Artagnan has a penchant for playing down his injuries and part of him acknowledges ruefully that he, Aramis and Porthos have probably taught him that particular skill. He looks away, unwilling to be witness to any more needless brutality.

He hears d'Artagnan grunt, detects a combination of pain, indignation and resentment in that solitary sound and tries to hide his own pride in the boy. He looks around the courtyard, noting every potential exit, every vantage point for attack and every rusty hinge, broken board and loose rock. 

When he looks back to Descarte and d'Artagnan he’s not surprised to see that the musketeer is securely bound, both hands and feet, and propped up somewhat awkwardly against a decaying hay bale. It probably isn’t the most comfortable position, Athos muses, but Descarte has made one simple mistake. Yes, their antagonist has made short work of binding d'Artagnan, but he has left the boy’s hands in front of him. Either he’s tired or he’s simply underestimated. Athos doesn’t really care which it it, he just knows this mistake will, at some point, work to their advantage.

He sighs dramatically, capturing Descarte’s attention. “Are you done yet?” he drawls, allowing boredom to creep into his voice.

Descarte gives the ropes around d'Artagnan’s wrists a final tug and stands slowly, kicking d'Artagnan’s feet out of his way. d'Artagnan instinctively pulls his knees up and glares at Descarte and, it seems, Athos.

“I’m ready when you are,” Descarte replies and he steps away from d'Artagnan.

Athos cocks his head to one side and nods at the sword held carelessly at Descarte’s side. 

“You have me at a distinct disadvantage,” he declares, raising open, empty palms to the man opposite him. “A duel cannot be a duel if only one of us is armed.”

Descarte stops and Athos wonders for a moment if he’s got this terribly, terribly wrong. But then Descarte nods and waves towards the decaying manor house.

“Your weapons are in there,” he tells the musketeer. “They’re just inside the doorway. It should take you less than a minute to find them. I’ll wait here with d'Artagnan, just in case you decide to take a tour.” He stops and looks pointedly at his own weapon. “One minute, Athos, or the boy suffers.”

Athos nods, understanding exactly the inference in those words. He walks in the indicated direction. Descarte, it turns out, is not lying and Athos has time to retrieve his own sword from the pile of musketeers’ weapons, carelessly discarded in a pile in what remains of the entrance hall. He doesn’t waste time – d'Artagnan can’t afford that – but he takes note quickly of how many swords and daggers are lying there. Aramis and d'Artagnan will want theirs back when this is over.

He returns to the courtyard and throws d'Artagnan what he hopes is a reassuring glance. The weight of his sword feels good in his hand and for the first time he truly believes he can see the end of this whole debacle. 

Descarte smiles coldly when he sees Athos and turns to face him. His eyes dart around the courtyard and Athos briefly wonders if there are, in fact, more men out there than he had realised. 

But the time for thinking is over as Descarte proves just how dishonorable he truly is. He raises his sword and in one swift move he lunges towards Athos, letting loose a cry worthy of the devil himself. Athos has just seconds to react, raising his own weapon to deflect the incoming blow.

The impact reverberates down his arm and sets his jaw on edge. He has no time to process his actions, he simply reacts, allowing the soldier in him to come to the front. He spins around, hoping to disorientate Descarte enough to gain the upper hand and as he comes full circle, his blade catches the edge of his opponent’s own blade. The sound of metal meetings echoes through the air. 

For a moment Athos thinks Descarte is going to drop his sword but he rallies quickly, quicker than Athos was hoping for. As he lunges for Athos again, the musketeer finds himself slightly off kilter. Steel meets steel and Athos finds himself forced back several steps. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees d'Artagnan straining against the ropes binding him. Athos doesn’t think the boy realises he’s being watched but he does spot the flash of pain that flies across the youngster’s face. It proves to be just the spur he needs.

Determination renewed, Athos raises his sword and charges. Afterwards, d'Artagnan will testify, albeit drunkenly, that Athos was possessed by some higher power. But at this moment, all Athos feels is fury and hatred. Strong emotions and Athos do not normally sit well together. As he thunders towards his opponent he has only one thought – to avenge his brothers who have been hurt at the hands of this monster before him.

His sword seems to have taken on a life of its own and there is no doubting who is the more skilled swordsman. He smiles grimly as he delivers one final, devastating blow which sends Descarte’s sword skittering across the dusty ground and the man himself spinning round drunkenly.

Panting, Athos drops his head, convinced of his victory. He closes his eyes and offers up a brief prayer of thanks.

His gratitude and relief is short lived however.

“You will never win, Athos.” Descarte’s voice sounds distant and hollow and as Athos raises his head, he feels the world drop away from his feet.

Descarte’s final spin has landed him by d'Artagnan’s side and by some twist of fate the man has managed to retrieve his sword, the point of which is now pressed firmly against d'Artagnan’s ribs.

“Did you really think you would better me?” he demands, pushing on his blade for emphasis. “Did you ever believe I would let you live? Why should your life be so much better than mine? I have lived for this moment for years! I will have retribution and my brother will be avenged. Your actions will never be forgotten or forgiven.”

Athos freezes, recognising the signs of creeping madness in Descarte’s voice. The man is beginning to shout, his movements becoming slightly uncoordinated.

“And this boy?” he shrieks, prodding d'Artagnan with the point of his blade. “This boy who you’ve corrupted with your cruelty, who you’ve mislead and lied to? What is his life compared to that of my brother? A man of God? Who are you to chose who lives and who dies?”

As Descarte continues to rant, Athos locks eyes with d'Artagnan. He can see barely concealed panic in the Gascon’s eyes and wants nothing more than to reassure him, to put an end to this madness. He wants to tell d'Artagnan not to move, that he will fix this, that he will never let any harm come to him.

But it seems it might just be too late. Descarte has finally fallen silent but his sword is now at d'Artagnan’s throat and his eyes have glazed over with the desire for revenge. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turns to face Athos.

“Say goodbye to him, Athos,” he whispers as the blade presses further into the soft flesh beneath d'Artagnan’s chin, not deep enough to draw blood but enough to cause the musketeer to catch his breath.

Athos has only experienced a red mist twice before in his life and afterwards he couldn’t – and still can’t – remember either the cause or the outcome. The world seems to slow down, actions become slower and so clearly defined. Athos steps forward once, twice, three strides and he’s got Descarte’s throat in one hand. His other hand is wrapped around the wrist holding the blade and with one deft twist Athos hears a satisfying crack accompanied by an agonized cry of pain. 

He feels his hand curl into a fist and he can’t stop the repeated swing and fall of his arm as he lets the mist take over completely. Distantly he can hear d'Artagnan pleading with someone – him? – to stop but he can’t. He tries, he really does, but the events of the last week have been building up in him and he needs this releases.

He knows the man at his feet is no longer in any position to fight, let alone be a threat but he still can’t help himself. He never really considered himself to be a cold blooded killer but right now he thinks he could become one.

He takes a final look at a distressed d'Artagnan curled up on the filthy ground, and raises his fist to deliver the killing blow.


	28. Chapter 28

Porthos freezes. Aramis is barely standing beside him and he’s uncertain as to the intentions of the man standing before him, pistol in hand. He thinks the gun is aiming at him but from this distance, with exhaustion poking at the edges of his mind, Porthos isn’t quite sure. It could just as easily be Aramis in the man’s sight. Porthos knows Aramis won’t be able to move quickly enough if the gun is fired.

He raises his hands defensively, grateful to note Aramis doing the same thing by his side, even though his companion has never seen this man before, waiting for the figure to make the first move.

The musketeers don’t have to wait long. Stepping out of the sunlight, finally allowing his face to be seen, Porthos gives himself a mental pat on the back for realising they may finally have an ally here. 

Fabron holds his gun steady as he advances, a smile that seems to want to be a grimace creeping onto his face.

“I see you have found your companions,” he states, waving the gun at Aramis. “You seem to be short though.”

“Not for long,” Porthos rumbles, refusing to allow this man to know how dire their situation really is. He feels Aramis waver by his side and automatically throws a supporting arm in his direction.

“It seems to me,” Fabron muses, “that the companion you have found is going to be of little help in retrieving your other friends.”

Porthos tilts his head sideways and throws a scathing look at their antagonist. “You’d be surprised,” he retorts.

Fabron nods slowly and jerks his pistol at Aramis in a manner that implies he will brook no argument. “Sit down,” he commands.

Porthos hesitates, unwilling to show weakness or succumb to threats but in his heart he knows Aramis is in no condition to be standing for any length of time and they both need to conserve their energy. On the other hand, he thinks, once seated the advantage Fabron holds over them will multiple ten fold. His decision is made for him, however, as Aramis’ knees fold beneath him and Porthos can do nothing but support his friend before he hits the ground.

“There,” Fabron smiles, as Porthos unwillingly complies with his command, “isn’t that better?” he drops to his haunches and, to Porthos’ great surprise, lowers his pistol. He doesn’t release his grip on it, but the threat it poses is lessened.

“Why are you still here?” Porthos queries. He thinks he can guess – if he were Fabron he would be out for revenge against the man that bested him too. He regrets that he’s pulled Aramis into yet another situation not of his making but he’s perversely grateful to have him at his side.

Fabron remains silent for a while, studying the two musketeers intently. Porthos refuses to look away, refuses to be intimated by the man he has beaten once. He wonders whether he was wrong to have let the man live when he had the chance but he knows in his heart he couldn’t kill him. He doesn’t know why, he just knows that wasn’t an option for him.

Fabron, it seems, is wondering the same thing. “Why did you let me live?” he asks and Porthos can feel the confusion radiating off Aramis. He thinks carefully about his answer, knowing that both men are waiting for his reasons. He isn’t the best wordsmith in the world but what he does say, he means sincerely and honestly.

“It felt right,” he finally answers. He pauses and looks at Aramis who is watching him curiously. “You fought well and you had your reasons. You were fighting for what you believed was a just cause. I think you’re a man of honour and there aren’t many of them left in Paris.” He stops and looks at Fabron, weighing up his next words carefully. “I thought I made the right decision – I still do.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence and Porthos wonders if he’s read the man wrong. He can feel Aramis tensing beside him, readying himself for a fight Porthos knows his friend would lose. Then, slowly and gracefully, Fabron relaxes and drops to a sitting position opposite the two soldiers. Porthos allows a little relief and hope to set up home in a small corner of his heart.

“I admire you,“ Fabron admits. “Most men would have run me through the second they had the upper hand. But you… you didn’t do that for whatever reason you had. I believe you and I share many things and my reasons for standing alongside Descarte may not be as strong as they once were.” He takes a deep breath and looks at Aramis, directing his next words to the injured man. “You were taken for reasons that were dishonourable. I thought your friend had wronged Descarte deliberately, that his actions had been beneath contempt, beneath the values I hold in my heart. I believed I was fighting to right a terrible injustice.” He stops and holds the pistol up, pointing to the sky. Then he makes a great show of dropping it to the ground, placing his now empty hand on his chest, covering his heart. 

“Now,” he continues,” I’m not so sure. Now I think it is I who have wronged him and, in turn, you.” He looks to Porthos. “I believe I am an honourable man and I ask your forgiveness but most of all,” and he looks back at Aramis, “most of all, I ask yours.”

Porthos turns to Aramis, looking for his companion’s reaction. He doesn’t know what hell Descarte put his friend through, he doesn’t know what part Fabron played in Aramis’ detention and torture – because there was torture, how else could Aramis have broken so completely? – and he doesn’t know if Aramis can completely understand what’s happening here right now. What he does know, however, is Aramis’ unending capacity for forgiveness. Porthos believes it to be his faith that allows him this quality and often wishes he could have half of what Aramis has.

Aramis nods, slowly. His eyes seem unfocussed to Porthos but right now, Porthos has bigger worries. Fabron, it would appear, is now an unlikely ally and it’s clear what their next concern must be – Athos and d’Artagnan. 

Fabron bows his head, a parody of receiving a blessing – ironic considering from whom he seems to be taking it – and mutters his thanks. Then he raises his head and his whole demeanour changes yet again back to the fighter Porthos first met.

“Your other friends?” he asks and Porthos is ridiculously grateful to have a fit and healthy ally at last. He doesn’t quite trust Fabron yet but if he goes on gut instinct he’s more inclined to have the man with them.

“Duelling,” he tells Fabron, “with Descarte. d'Artagnan is the prize.”

“Then we have no time to lose. Descarte doesn’t fight fair. Even if your friend is the better fighter, Descarte will stop at nothing to win. He’ll sacrifice the prize if he must.”

Porthos acknowledges the truth in those words and turns to Aramis as he rises to his feet. He holds out a hand to his friend, a silent offer of help and support which is accepted with a small, grateful smile. Together they stand and Porthos holds on to Aramis’ elbow, trying not to react to the way the man beside him is swaying slightly. He ignores the tremors running along the limb in his hand. He’ll deal with those later – they all will.

“We promised not bring an army,” Aramis whispers. “We said nothing about a mercenary.” 

And together the unlikely trio turn back towards the abandoned manor house, back towards the brothers they will never leave behind.


	29. Chapter 29

d'Artagnan doesn’t know when he’s seen such anger, such fury, contained in one man. Once, in Gascony, there was a bar fight over a woman. He’d been sixteen at the time and his father had warned him to stay away from that particular bar. But at sixteen, a warning from his father had proved more of an incentive than a deterrent.

That fight had been different though. There had been high emotions and wild blows. Blood had flown freely and randomly that night. Here, now, there are high emotions running free that are normally held in check by tight control. He knows Athos is fighting to avenge Aramis, to save d'Artagnan and to right some wrong that befell him some years ago.

In the days and weeks to come, d'Artagnan will tell this story over and over but he will never admit to the fear he feels right now. Athos has always been the one in control, the one who takes measured decisions and considers the outcome of his choices before acting upon them. The Athos in front of him now is so far removed from the man he knows that d'Artagnan doesn’t know whether to be afraid of Descarte or Athos or himself.

Descarte is on the floor, Athos standing above him with a raised fist – a fist covered in the blood of their antagonist. d'Artagnan scrambles to his knees, ignoring the residual pain in his wrists.

“Athos,” he calls, hoping to penetrate the anger surrounding his mentor. “Athos! Stop!”

The sound of his voice sounds hollow and scratchy to himself and he doubts if he’s made any impact on Athos at all. He tries again, louder and more desperate. He doesn’t want this man’s death to be on Athos’ hands. Not because he doesn’t believe it’s what Descarte deserves, but because he doesn’t want Athos to add to what he suspects is a growing list of regrets.

Athos spares him a glance and for one brief moment d'Artagnan thinks he’s getting through to the older man.

“Don’t do this,” he pleads, wondering where this compassion comes from. He knows it’s not sympathy for Descarte. But Athos simply shakes his head and d'Artagnan thinks he hears a muttered ‘I’m sorry’ but it’s gone on the wind before it reaches his ears.

d'Artagnan shakes his head, desperate for Athos to acknowledge him with more than placatory words that are meaningless. He watches as, in slow motion, Athos’ fist descends towards Descarte who is now curled up on the ground, hands shielding his head, knees drawn up to protect his abdomen.

He hears a cry and for a minute he wonders where the sound is coming from before realising it’s from his own mouth.

“No!” he screams. This is not how it’s meant to end, he thinks. There are meant to be no more preventable deaths. Athos is not meant to have one more life on his conscience where there is no need. Whatever Descarte has done, it should be dealt with through the courts. Let the judges – hell, let the King – decide what fate this man should suffer.

Athos’ fist freezes merely inches from Descarte’s head and the musketeer looks at d'Artagnan, really looks this time and d'Artagnan realises his voice didn’t stop at ‘No!’ – Athos has heard every word he thought was merely in his head.

d'Artagnan watches as his mentor, his friend, lets his fist drop to hang loosely at his side and turns to face him at last. He offers d'Artagnan a slight nod before turning back to Descarte.

“You owe this boy your life,” he hisses. “It’s more than you deserve and I spare your life for his sake, not yours.”

d'Artagnan takes a deep breath, the first relaxed breath he’s managed for some time. Athos pushes at Descarte with one booted foot before turning back to the Gascon on the floor. He drops to his haunches in front of him and takes d'Artagnan’s bound hands in his own. 

d'Artagnan feels relief flood through him, mixed with confusion. He doesn’t know why it was so important to him that Athos stop the inevitably fatal fight, just that things didn’t feel right. He lets his eyes slide shut and is suddenly assaulted by an overwhelming fatigue. He can feel Athos’ hands fumbling with the rope and knows it’s going to take more than fingers to release his bonds.

Athos’ presence is gone and d'Artagnan assumes he’s going to retrieve a blade to slice through his bonds. He opens his eyes and verifies what he’d thought. Athos is returning with his sword in hand and d'Artagnan’s feet are freed in a matter of seconds. The older musketeer leans over him and he offers out his hands in order to facilitate the liberation of his arms. Athos positions his blade but before he can complete the action, Descarte rises from the ground and stumbles towards the men.

d'Artagnan tries to call out a warning but Athos is clearly exhausted and he doesn’t move fast enough to avoid the blow from the hilt of Descarte’s own sword. d'Artagnan watches, horrified, as Athos falls to the side and lies motionless.

It feels like an age but afterwards d'Artagnan realises it must only be a matter seconds before the young musketeer is on his feet, lurching forwards to where Descarte stands over Athos, preparing to finish this feud they have. d'Artagnan raises his hands, fingers interlocked to form a double fist which he powers over Descarte’s head.

He feels the connection as Descarte staggers, thankfully away from Athos. But his madness seems to spur him on and he spins around to face d'Artagnan. The Gascon wonders if he’s made the right decision but really, there was no choice. Athos’ life was in peril.

Descarte smiles a thin and cruel smile. He wipes the blood from his face, smearing it across his features, and takes a determined step in d'Artagnan’s direction. Where his energy comes from, d'Artagnan has no idea but he finds himself backing away from him, hands raised in front of him for protection.

He spares a quick look to Athos and is relieved to see his friend stirring before Descarte launches himself at the younger musketeer. d'Artagnan is surprised by the strength left in the man, or maybe, he muses, it’s the lack of strength left in himself. He feels himself propelled backwards several feet, landing hard on the unforgiving ground with the weight of Descarte on top of him.

Through the ringing in his ears he thinks he can hear Athos let loose a war cry worthy of any battlefield. He wonders, hopes, if this means Athos has regained his footing but he has no more time to think of it as his fight for survival takes precedence. 

Descarte has wrapped his hands around d'Artagnan’ throat and is squeezing hard. The Gascon worms his still bound hands up between Descarte’s arms, but the ties binding him prevent him pushing the offending arms sideways, away from his throat.

As his vision begins to fade with his strength he wonders if Athos will be disappointed in him; if Aramis and Porthos managed to get to safety; if Captain Treville will blame him.

But it appears Fate is smiling upon him today as the pressure from his neck is abruptly relieved. He rolls to the side, coughing and spluttering, desperately drawing in breath to replenish his burning lungs. Opening his eyes, he’s greeted by the sight of Athos holding tight to Descarte’s collar, his fist clenched and held high, ready to swing.

A glint of sunlight bouncing off metal catches d'Artagnan’s eye and his muddled mind struggles to place it. As Athos’ fist drops in its downward arc, d'Artagnan realises with horror that the light is reflecting off a dagger in Descarte’s hand. He watches as the dagger and Athos’ arm travel in perfect harmony to meet mere inches from Descarte’s chest.

Athos grunts in pain as the blade slices through his forearm and d'Artagnan winces in sympathy as the blood flows freely. Descarte rolls away and is on his feet quicker than d'Artagnan would have given him credit for. Their adversary tosses the knife to one side as he grabs for d'Artagnan, pulling him to his knees in front of him, using him as a human shield, the barrel of a pistol pressing against the back of his head. d'Artagnan freezes, unable to fathom this turn of events; unable to understand how Descarte has managed to get hold of a pistol without either musketeer being aware of it

“You were a fool,” he hisses in d'Artagnan’s ear. “You should have let him kill me when he had the chance. Now he gets to watch you die.”

d'Artagnan looks at Athos, panic fighting for position with courage and the desire to seem strong for Athos. Athos returns the look as he holds his arm tightly, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his arm.

He knows Descarte is tightening his finger on the trigger by the way Athos’ eyes widen in undisguised panic and he just has time to think ‘so this is how it ends’ as a shot rings out.


	30. Chapter 30

It’s been a while since Aramis felt like this. He has Porthos at his side; they have a new, albeit untested, ally; they have a definite purpose and finally, finally, he thinks he can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

He feels secure and it’s more than just the physical presence of his dearest friend’s supporting arm around his waist holding him up and giving him the strength to take each step back towards the manor house. It’s a deep seated warmth filling his soul. He thinks maybe God has not forsaken him after all and he offers silent prayers of thanks as the unlikely trio slowly, oh so slowly, wind their way through the scrubland.

He feels Porthos’ arm tighten imperceptibly and can’t stop the sharp intake of breath it causes as his ribs protest the pressure. He knows Porthos doesn’t mean to hurt him and he hates that his reaction provokes a concerned look from his fellow musketeer.

“D’you need to stop?” Porthos asks, worry clouding his words.

In truth, yes, Aramis would like to stop but he won’t. He can’t risk any more time lost to Descarte. Athos and d'Artagnan are in grave danger and although he is not the root of this problem, he can’t help feel he is to blame for their current situation.

He shakes his head, not quite trusting his voice yet. He takes comfort in the fact that Porthos probably recognises the lie in his response but is choosing to ignore it for the same reasons as it was given.

“We’ll push on for a bit longer,” Porthos says, raising his voice so Fabron can hear him. The mercenary is striding ahead of them and Aramis is surprised to find himself grateful to the man. It means Porthos can give him the much needed support and comfort he would never ask for.

They continue on their way, stopping only when Aramis stumbles over his own feet or succumbs to a bout of coughing. Neither musketeer mentions the splattering of blood around his mouth after each bout although both are worried by it. Aramis is grateful that Porthos makes no fuss of it. He will deal with it, with all his injuries, once he knows Athos and d'Artagnan are alive and safe.

He loses sense of time, concentrating on the rhythmic plod of their feet over the sundried ground. He listens to his heartbeat ticking away in his chest. He wonders if it should be quite so fast but he puts it down to stress and the extra effort his body is making to simply stay upright.

When Porthos comes to an abrupt halt, it take Aramis by surprise. He prises his half closed eyes fully open, blinking the dust away as best he can, before taking in the scene before him. 

They have arrived, by some miracle, at the manor house. If he listens carefully, he can hear voices but his mind is no longer able to distinguish individual words from this distance. He tries to straighten out, fingers scrabbling to find purchase on Porthos’ jacket.

“What’s happening?” he whispers, looking to where Fabron has dropped to his belly, crawling forward to seek shelter behind an outcrop of bushes.

“We’re ‘ere” Porthos confirms. “They’re still alive, if those voices are anything to go by.” He pauses and Aramis looks at his face. It’s creased in concentration and Aramis is fairly certain he doesn’t want to hear the next words. “At least, d'Artagnan is still alive,” Porthos continues softly. “I can’t hear Athos.”

Aramis feels the strength go from his knees and it’s only Porthos’ strong hold on him that keeps him upright. The blood rushes from his head and he sways, dizzy and sick.

“He must be,” he murmurs, refusing to accept the alternative. “He has to be.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “He’ll be fine. He’s got d'Artagnan to look out for him.”

Before Aramis can formulate a response to that, Fabron has turned back to them and is beckoning them with a waving arm and a glare. Porthos looks to Aramis and the sniper can see apology in his eyes as the hold on his waist loosens.

“Stay here,” Porthos says, as he lowers Aramis down next to a tree, propping him upright. “I’ll be right back.”

Aramis wishes he could believe Porthos but he knows if they’re positions were reversed, he would be doing the same thing. So he simply nods and lets his head fall back against the rough bark of the tree. 

He watches as Porthos makes his way to the ally they have found and wishes he were part of the conversation that is taking place in hushed tones with the odd glance back in his direction. Finally, Porthos turns back to him and for a minute Aramis thinks he’s coming to fetch him.

But Porthos just looks at him and Aramis can read the uncertainty in his eyes, even from this distance. He feels a ball of lead sinking slowly in his stomach – he doesn’t know what Porthos and Fabron can see from their vantage point but Porthos doesn’t look happy. He watches as his friend turns back to Fabron and shakes head slowly before crawling back across the dusty ground to Aramis.

“What is it?” Aramis demands, the second Porthos is within range of hearing him. “Athos? d'Artagnan?”

Porthos heaves a sigh and rests an arm on Aramis’ shoulder.

“d'Artagnan is fine,” he replies, a bitter smile colouring his words. “He’s in fine voice too.” There’s a pause and Aramis doesn’t think he can take the tension. “Athos is still alive,” Porthos finally tells him, “but I don’t know for how long. There’s a hell of a fight going on down there.”

Aramis makes to rise from his position, wincing as his ribs, arms, shoulders, legs and head protest the action. A hand on his shoulder halts his faltering progress and he looks into eyes that are full of understanding and regret.

He looks down to Porthos’ hand where he is offering Aramis a loaded pistol.

“Stay here,” Porthos orders gently. “Keep this and use it if you have to. Fabron and I will go and get them.”

“Porthos…” Aramis tries to protest, but Porthos is not budging.

“You’ll hold us back, you’re in no state to help.” He stops places the palm of his hand on Aramis’ cheek. “I’m sorry, I really am but I can’t risk you.” Porthos drops his head as Aramis digests his words. 

He doesn’t like it, but he can see the logic and he knows it’s exactly what he would be doing if their positions were reversed. He reluctantly nods his agreement, although deep down he knows neither he nor Porthos believe for one second he will sit passively while his brothers are in mortal danger. But it’s what Porthos needs to hear and Aramis will, at least, give him that.

He watches as Porthos and Fabron make their way down to the courtyard and waits until they can no longer see him before taking a deep breath to steel himself. It was difficult to move with his friend’s assistance. On his own, he knows this is going to be slow and painful. But he will not surrender to the pain, not with so much at stake.

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to reach the gates to the manor house but the pounding of his blood in his ears deafens him to the sounds of the fight inside the courtyard. He’s lost sight of Porthos and Fabron but he knows they’re safe and that he doesn’t need to worry about them. 

It’s the sight of Athos, lying on the ground, not moving, that has his full attention.

He watches as though from another plane of existence as Descarte grabs d'Artagnan and produces a gun from seemingly nowhere. Suddenly his eyesight and hearing are razor sharp, years of experience and training showing up when he needs them most. He can see the panic on the face of their newest member and he can almost feel the exhaustion rolling off Athos and d'Artagnan. 

His pistol is raised before the thought has been fully processed in his head and the toll of the last four days – or is it five now? Aramis can’t remember – dissipate, making way for the concentration and final reserve of strength Aramis needs now more than ever.

He takes one last look at d'Artagnan, takes in the look of sorrow and resignation and knows that the boy has accepted he is facing death, before turning his attention to the man standing behind him.

He closes his eyes briefly, flashes of the last week spiraling across his memory, spurring him on, refusing to let this monster harm any more of his friends.

The shot surprises even him but as the recoil of the pistol knocks him on his back he knows his aim was true and that d'Artagnan and Athos no longer have anything to fear, that Porthos and Fabron will be with them by now. And finally safe in the knowledge his friends are, if not fit and well, at least going to survive this ordeal, he lets his eyes slide shut and consciousness slides away.

TTM TTM TTM

Epilogue

They find Aramis unconscious by the gates of the manor house. From a distance he looks like he’s asleep but to his fellow musketeers the sight of him lying prone is a heart stopping moment. It takes only minutes to ascertain that he is not, in fact, dead but has merely succumbed to his ordeal.

The journey back to Paris is uneventful, not taking into account the many stops needed for Aramis and d'Artagnan to rest and recuperate. But they cannot afford to tarry. 

Treville meets them at the garrison, face full of anger and concern and, although he will never admit it, fatherly love for all four of his musketeers. He orders Aramis and d'Artagnan to a physician immediately while expecting a full report from Athos. 

Athos is brief and succinct, as only he can be. He tells Treville exactly what happened, sparing none of the details. He is frugal with the tale of his wife but knows the Captain deserves to know as much as he can bear to admit to. Treville does not judge; he’s merely happy to have his men back in one piece.

He notes the knife wound on Athos’ arm, notes that it’s been tended to in some fashion on their way back to Paris, but worries about infection. He orders him to the physician once the doctor has finished with Aramis and d'Artagnan. Athos nods and mentions Porthos’ own injury.

Treville sighs and tells him that they may as well stick together with the doctor. 

He asks about Fabron – Athos isn’t too sure what to tell him other than the man renounced Descarte and probably saved their lives. Treville can’t ignore the man’s crimes but can turn a blind eye should the man decide to leave Paris by nightfall.

Athos smiles and nods. 

They will all retell this ordeal many times and over time there will be some variation in the retelling until it becomes just another adventure. But in their hearts, all that matters is that they all survived.


End file.
